Deliver Us from Evil, Part I: Mortality
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: In November 1890, a murder investigation sparks off a chain of events that will end at a Swiss waterfall. Scotland Yard and Watson struggle to stop Moriarty's most devastating plan: the destruction of Sherlock Holmes. First in a series. To be continued in The Road to Reichenbach.
1. Prologue: Valley of the Shadow

**Author's Note:**

Well, I didn't think I'd be uploading my first Sherlock Holmes novel to FFN (and as my FIFTIETH FIC onsite, no less!). But… I've discovered that writing a novel without feedback (other than from my mom, which, I grant you, is not inconsiderable)… is rather a lonely business. So, I've decided to feel my audience out by uploading just the first few chapters (won't give away the whole thing for free, since I want to sell it, y'know ;D) and getting some badly-needed feedback.

You see, if you write a novel with only one or two other people reading along… you're still basically alone. It's a marked contrast to the experience of AMM. I'm starting to run a bit dry; I need feedback badly.

So here's what I need _**YOU**_ to do. I need constructive feedback. I need you to tell me that this and this works or that and that doesn't, and I need you to tell me _why_. I do _not_ want a run-of-the-mill review like "great chapter," "enjoyed it," "like it," "don't like it," "meh," or even "love it." I'm asking for serious feedback. Now, if you want to say that you love it _and_ give me a quick run-down on _what_ you like and/or _why_ you like it, etc.—_that_ is fine by me. But, heh, "give me details." ^_^

So this is Part One of the coming _Deliver Us from Evil_ series—_Tales from the Great Hiatus_ and quite a few AMM pieces are tied in with this series. I hope to have this first novel, _Mortality_, out by next spring.

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><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

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><p><em><strong>Deliver Us from Evil, A Sherlock Holmes Saga<strong>_

_**Part I: Mortality**_

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><p>Late 1890: a young gentleman hires Sherlock Holmes to investigate his step-uncle, Culverton Smith. As Holmes digs deeper, he finds links to a powerful old enemy—and must come face to face with his own mortality. The first part in a series.<p>

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><p><strong>==Prologue==<strong>

**Valley of the Shadow**

"_I have been in the Valley of Fear. I am not out of it yet."_

—Birdy Edwards

I have never liked the dark.

It serves its purpose as a tool, a cover under which I may slip when I must traverse London unnoticed, but, beyond that, darkness and I have no kinship. The night is the realm of the lawbreaker and the evildoer, and it is my business to shine light into that blackness and reveal such men. I have no kinship with the dark.

Rather, I did not until now, for darkness now comprises my very existence.

It is deep, penetrating, infinite. It pushes up against my body, thrums in my ears, sets its hands about my throat, seeps into my mind.

A living thing, then, this darkness—a presence all of its own, not a mere absence of light. Even now I can feel it clawing at my mental faculties, filling my head with its harsh whispers. I cannot hold out forever

_(Sherlock Holmes must hold out, he wouldn't give up, am I still that man?)_

this captivity shall break me

_(God, make these voices stop, _please,_ let my mind stop just this once, just let it be _quiet_)_

Watson shall not come in time

_(my dear fellow, hurry, I need you, I need you so desperately, forgive me, I am so sorry)_

he shall not come at all

_(no, he must, he always does, he shan't abandon me to this, he cannot)_

I shall die here in the dark

_(let me die, then, it's too much, I fear life now more than death, I can't keep on going, I _cannot_)_

alone and forgotten

_(Watson wouldn't, Mycroft, Lestrade, they must come, please, hurry)_

a fragmented shell of a man before the end.

_(dear Father in Heaven, just make it _stop_)_

Something rises in my throat… I hear a whimper. My own voice. _Fragmented shell_. I am broken already. Dear God, I am _broken_.

I hear a sound from beyond the blackness—or do I imagine it? My brain—feverish, I think—has conjured up so many noises in this deafening silence. No, it is a real sound, for I recognise the door's _creeeak_ as it opens. Light abruptly floods in to replace the darkness, and I lethargically raise manacled hands to shield my eyes, lest they go blind. Just this simple action drains what strength I have left from my arms.

A tall silhouette looms in the doorway, kindly casting its shadow over me. I cannot see the face, but the slow turning of the head from side to side leaves no doubt even in my drugged mind. A chill ripples sluggishly down my spine.

"Inject him," the man orders in a soft, precise voice.

After long four years, at last we meet, and I am not even granted the dignity of standing face to face, unfettered and strong. I am already fragile and trembling, a shadow of my former self—need I be injected with still more drugs? How much further can they break an already-broken man?

_(do you wish to break me open, see the pieces of my mind, can you put me back together?)_

I curl up, as much as I am able,

_(just _stop,_ won't you, why must you keep poisoning me, does it satisfy you to see me like this?)_

into a ball in the only show of resistance I can manage. I receive a kick to my shins for my effort, and I bite back a cry, my lip already split and scabbed from many such bites. Rough hands pry my knees inexorably away from my chest, prevailing over my feeble attempt to writhe away. The coarse chuckle as my left arm is yanked straight out sounds so far away.

_(so very far, yet he can still hurt me)_

Tie the tourniquet, find the vein, pierce the skin, press down the piston. How many times have I administered that ritual to myself?

I gasp as the needlepoint enters my arm, for though I have followed this procedure countless times in using my seven-per-cent solution, never did it truly hurt as I did it. Not in the manner that it hurts now, and it does _hurt_. Brief, clean stab that somehow brings every nerve in my body alive, slowly burning me from the inside out.

_(I've burned before, survived an inferno, I don't think I can do it again, I don't think I can do it again)_

"Raise him," the voice murmurs, its very softness more unsettling than any shout.

"_The Professor."_ So long ago it seems, since I first heard that title from the lips of a dying man, a police informant shot for his treachery to his gang. Thus began the work of a lifetime to bring justice to a man whose hands were stained with the blood of hundreds, perhaps thousands. So very long ago… almost an eternity. That was another man's existence, I think, not mine.

Not mine.

Sherlock Holmes would never let himself break, would never let himself be taken so easily in the first place. I am not that man. I am not.

Sherlock had his Watson. I have no one. I am alone. I am no one. I am alone.

"_Those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted."_

The words spring out of nowhere in my mind as I am roughly dragged to my feet by two pairs of strong hands. (I can't even find it in me to be indignant any longer—it's merely routine, after all. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes would be indignant, but I am not he.) I recognise that I _should_ know from whence those words came, but the memory floats just beyond my grasp, taunting my inability to pull my faculties together and seize it.

_Those dark hours_…

How terribly fitting.

This, then, is the end of the game.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Got your attention, yes? =) And perhaps you recognized it? Well, please read on to the first chapter, which is also uploaded today.

**EDIT 9/02/11:** This prologue has been redrafted and uploaded thanks to some feedback on it. Hope it meets the audience's approval!

_**Please review!**_


	2. 1: Of Clients and Concerns

**Author's Note:**

Forgot to mention in the Prologue… this is completely unedited, save by yours truly. My beta will not be combing it for a while yet.

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><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

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><p><strong>==Chapter I==<strong>

**Of Clients and Concerns**

_**One month earlier:**_

"I beg your pardon, but are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the private consulting detective?"

The tall man halted on his doorstep and turned to see a younger man staring up at him from the sidewalk. _Early twenties, only child, wealthy, banking trade, steady and sensible, slightly romantic, played rugby in university, lives in West Norwood, engaged to be married_. And he wore deep mourning.

"I am. And your name, sir?"

"Victor Savage." The youth hastily tipped his hat. "Mr. Holmes, may I speak with you? It is quite important."

Sherlock Holmes unlocked the door, opened it, and gestured inside. "Do come in, Mr. Savage. My condolences on your recent loss."

"How did you know it was…" Young Savage looked down and saw the legal papers protruding from his coat. "Ah." He looked back up, his cornflower blue eyes holding a faint gleam of amusement. "I see. Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to make an appearance. "Mr. Holmes—oh, pardon me, I didn't realise you had a visitor." She hurried forward to take Savage's hat and coat.

"It's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes assured her. "Follow me, Mr. Savage?" Once inside the sitting room upstairs, he settled into his armchair and steepled his fingers. "Now, how may I be of service to you?"

Savage had declined a seat and was now pacing the rug between the fireplace and the table in a state of considerable agitation. "It is my uncle, Mr. Holmes—my step-uncle, you understand. My father has just died, and his stepbrother, Mr. Culverton Smith, desires more than the tidy sum Father left him."

"Surely you would be better off consulting your lawyer?"

Savage shook his pale blond head. "There is more to it than that, Mr. Holmes. You see, I have reason to believe that Culverton is engaged in… less than legal activities."

"Indeed?"

The young man nodded. "Culverton's father was a man who made his wealth in shipping, but most of his fortune was lost to gambling and poor investment. The only thing Culverton was really left with was a plantation in Sumatra. It was quite irksome to him, for he is a profound student of pathology, though he holds no degree."

"Not even a Bachelor of Science?"

"No, he… he hadn't the money to finish university. He's had to scrape together what he could to continue his studies. For a time, it seemed as though his management of the Sumatran plantation would pay off. Then disease struck, devastating his workforce. He got to witness a tropical illness firsthand, but little good it did him. He had to sell off the plantation and return to London. That was a few months ago. Now Father's dead and left him quite enough to live off of, but Culverton isn't content with that."

Holmes held up a hand. "My dear sir, you still have not explained how you believe your step-uncle to be criminally connected."

"I know, Mr. Holmes—I was just coming to that. The fact is, I've heard rumours at my club—from two lads who are courageous or foolish enough to brave the East End just for thrills—that people have been dying there from rare diseases. Of course, in that part of town, it's nothing new, but these cases seem to be isolated and quite acute, killing the victims in just a couple of days. And they did not start until just a little bit after Culverton had returned home. Now, surely, Mr. Holmes, that cannot be coincidence."

"Perhaps, perhaps not, but I do dislike coincidence." Holmes frowned over the tips of his fingers. "You believe Culverton Smith to be experimenting with the immigrant population to study the results?"

Hesitating, Savage grimaced. Holmes wordlessly held out his cigarette case, and Savage gratefully accepted a cigarette and inhaled the smoke once before answering. "Culverton, unlike his father, is a practical man, with a scientific bent that approaches cold-bloodedness. I believe that he would, ha, well, take a pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid himself simply to document the effects properly." He paused in his pacing and glanced sideways at Holmes.

The detective shook his head. "I recognise the allusion, Savage, and that was merely another man's opinion of me. I would never treat myself or any friend of mine in such a manner."

Savage smiled ruefully and gave a little nod. "My apologies, Mr. Holmes. But, you see, I don't really have a reason to _disbelieve_ that Culverton would commit such deeds. Why, even recently, I visited a pub with him, and he said something about London being an excellent place to study Asiatic diseases, far removed from their source. I think he was, well, in his cups, and the drink had quite loosened his tongue."

"Do you remember his exact words? It may be important."

The young man flushed and looked down. "I'm ashamed to say that he was not the only one of us whose judgement was impaired by spirits. That is really all that I can remember."

Holmes's eyebrows drew together. "Hum, that is really too bad."

Desperation flooded Savage's robust features. "Do look into it, Mr. Holmes. You'll be handsomely rewarded if only you can put my mind at ease one way or another. With the possibility of my relative's being a murderer and the reality of his desire for more of my father's estate, I fear for my very life."

"Quite so. Very well, Mr. Savage, I shall look into your problem for you, and I think I need not warn you to be on your guard. Be quite conscious of all that passes to you in food, drink, and post. Poison is a woman's weapon, but your relative may be ample proof that the device is not exclusive to the fairer sex."

"I shall take the utmost care," Savage said determinedly, lifting his chin. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I feel quite better already, and it really is an honour to meet you." He offered his hand, which Holmes shook. "I first read of you in _Beeton's Christmas Annual_, and I've been following your career ever since. I must confess to being a great admirer of your work—Emily, my fiancée, jests that I am obsessed, but, really, it is quite marvellous. To think that it is possible to deduce a man's life story merely by his clothes and appearance!"

Holmes felt his face flush with pleasure. "It is nothing, I assure you. Quite a shallow trick that anyone can learn if they apply themselves."

Savage smiled faintly. "I've _been_ applying myself for three years, Mr. Holmes, and I trust I am no duller witted than the average Londoner. You, sir, possess a gift, that the rest of us poor mortals simply don't have."

Holmes said nothing, but a small smile flitted across his lips.

"Well, I shall be going, then." Savage slapped his card down upon the table. "Good day, Mr. Holmes, and good hunting."

Holmes remained in his chair as the client departed, and took his cherry-wood pipe down from the mantle. He contemplated using it for a few moments, then decided against it and stood. He lit a cigarette instead and hurried downstairs and outside without pausing to grab his greatcoat. The Irregular on-duty today was little Kelly, and he scampered over from the nearby shoeshine stand when Holmes called.

"Oi, Mr. 'Olmes, yew be wantin' Wiggins?"

"That I do, my lad, and tell him he's needed immediately."

Kelly's green eyes went wide. "Cor, is it murder, Mr. 'Olmes?" He had been with the Baker Street Irregulars for but a year, being only nine years of age.

"Quite possibly. Now scarper!"

"Yessir!"

Holmes shoved one hand into his pockets and watched the boy run off. It had been ten years since he'd literally stumbled across Davy Wiggins and hired him as an informant. Then it was the boy's brother, then the brother's friend, then Davy's two friends, and, in the space of half a year, Sherlock Holmes had acquired a young detective force that numbered a full dozen.

The Twelve Apostles, the Yarders called them, following that upstart amateur the same way the real Apostles had followed Christ.

One corner of Holmes's mouth pulled back. Not quite accurate, but amusing. The moniker stuck, still applying to the original twelve Irregulars who were now all grown to manhood. Three were in the Scotland Yard Constabulary, four were apprenticed out to tradesmen, two were cabbies (and swung around Baker Street often in hopes of transporting their former employer), two more drifted about and did odd jobs, and the old ringleader… Well, Davy Wiggins outshone them all, as everyone knew he would.

Wiggins still held his position as Holmes's lieutenant, overseeing the operations of the current Irregulars, which now stood at forty-nine boys aged from eight to twenty-one years. Wiggins aspired to be a private consulting detective himself, though his focus was solely and realistically set on aiding the members of his own class. He himself had risen, through education out of Holmes's own pocket, to speech and manners that would indicate the middle class, but his heart lay with his people. He well knew that Scotland Yard simply did not have the men and the resources to bring light to the darker parts of London, so there he was determined to traverse to bring justice to those who could not be protected otherwise.

He was swift and cunning, and he had learned well. Holmes knew that his protégé would go far in life.

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><p>An hour later found Wiggins in the sitting room of 221B, studying a particular entry in one of Holmes's many commonplace books. "Smith, Culverton," he read aloud. "Quit University of London, etcetera, etcetera, monographs on Asiatic diseases—cor blimey, sounds like you—amateur student—of <em>course<em>—further etcetera…" He looked up at his employer. "This is our potential murderer?"

The affected middle-class inflection was impressive—only the astute observer would realise that Cockney was the boy's native speech. "Quite so," said Holmes past his cherry-wood pipe. "You have not heard of him, then?"

Wiggins shook his head and looked back down at the book. "13 Lower Burke Street," he mused aloud. "I'll get Wilkins, Thompson, O'Neal, and Saunders to watch him." He reached up to rub the back of his neck. "But I s'ppose you'll want my adult contacts, too."

"Certainly—anyone you can get."

The boy nodded. "Right, then." He shut the book decisively and stood. "Are you bringing the Doctor aboard this time?"

"I shall ask him if he knows anything about Smith, but, beyond that, I shan't trouble him. 'My practice is never very absorbing,' he says, but winter is coming on and sickness with it—no exotic diseases need apply. I shall be surprised if I can see him at all."

"But you'll let him know about the case, at least?"

Holmes frowned, to all appearances innocently puzzled. "Is there a reason why I should?"

Wiggins' blue eyes narrowed, and Holmes knew that they were about to re-enact an argument that had been nearly two years running. "I think he'd like to keep up with your cases."

"There is no need of it."

"Other than the fact that you're friends? Oh, no, no need 't'all!"

Holmes was not grinding his teeth around his pipe. No, for that would be a sign of irritation, and he refused to be irritated by his lieutenant's tenacity in this difference of opinion. "David Jonathan Wiggins, Dr. Watson has his own life to live, and I mine. I have worked without a partner before, and I am working without one now quite well."

"'Cept for that knife-wound you got, early August," Wiggins persisted. "Did you ever tell the Doc about _that_?"

Holmes nearly threw up his hands. "No! He had enough to worry about with a child on the way, and then the baby was stillborn! Why burden him with unnecessary concern after the fact?"

The younger man sprung to his feet, all traces of refinement gone. "'E would've wanted t' know! Sherlock 'Olmes, you're not invincible, an't seems 's'if Watson, Lestrade, 'n' me are the only people in the bloody world wot knows it!"

Holmes spent a full ten seconds reining in his temper. "You forgot Mycroft," he said at last, his calm voice belying the undeniable irritation roiling inside.

"Fine, then, Mr. Mycroft, too." Wiggins ran both hands through his golden hair and swore.

"Hold your tongue."

"I ain't—" Wiggins closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out—"I'm _not_ a child anymore." He opened his eyes. "Soon's I have an-y-thin'," he continued in a dull tone, "I'll let you know." Holmes was left staring after an almost slammed-shut door.

He pulled the pipe from his mouth and just stopped himself from doing something childish with it. He and Wiggins had been replaying that conversation ever since the Watsons' wedding. After the initial bout of depression and loneliness, Holmes had recovered and thrown himself back into his work, completing eight cases between the wedding and the incident regarding The Woman. He requested or allowed Watson's presence on many cases in the spring and summer of '89, but it was in the autumn of that year that at last he realised his selfishness.

His dearest friend had a wife and a practise. He couldn't continue to impose upon Watson's time… and he couldn't allow Watson to be wounded again. Certainly not now, with Mary in the picture. The debacle of a counterfeiting case that had ended in a Jezail to Watson's thigh could not be repeated, no matter what deadly circumstances in which Holmes found himself. Watson might not survive next time, and Holmes knew _he_ would not if Watson did not.

"_Holmes!"_

"_Watson, shh, I'm here."_

"_Holmes…"_

"_Shh, shh, I'm here, my dear fellow."_

"_Holmes, please…"_

Just the memory of nursing Watson on his presumed deathbed still had the power to rattle Holmes. He glared down at the traitorous trembling of his hands and willed them to stop. Setting down his pipe, he raised his forefinger to his lips. No, involving Watson in a possible poison case was out of the question, but surely no harm could come of visiting Paddington Street? Merely to check up on the Watsons and to ask after Culverton Smith?

Holmes felt his gaze drawn to the armchair opposite his that stood empty so often these days. After nearly two years, he still missed Watson's constant presence, sometimes fiercely so. He shook his head at himself and hurried to depart.

The wind had picked up, and grey clouds rolled across the sky, a promise of rain to come by nightfall. Holmes turned up his coat collar and hurried north for Paddington, hoping that the Irregulars assigned to Smith would have the sense to get out of the rain once it hit. Over the past decade, he had had many cases of sickness and injuries to handle in his detective force, from sprained ankles and broken bones to influenza and pneumonia. As a general rule, now, the Irregulars were required to hurry out of danger's way no matter what. Watson had given the order, and Wiggins had enforced it—the boys reckless with their health and safety were taken off the case or banned from the next one.

Holmes quirked a brief smile, heartened a bit. He had developed an efficient force, and he was proud of it. He was proud of his boys.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder shook the air, and the detective quickened his pace. He sensed that he would be taking a cab home.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Let's see… what can I discourse on?…

Ah! Victor Savage. Like him? Personally, I like him a lot—he's just a really nice young man. And a Holmesian. ^_^

Speaking of Holmesians… we even have Wiggins in this first chapter! In fact, Wig features as one of the major characters of the book, as well as the series proper. David Jonathan Wiggins, a.k.a. Wiggins, Wig, and Davy. =) He's twenty-one, here, btw.

Finally, "Kelly" used to be a boy's name only, and it's an Irish name. Now, it's used for boys _and_ girls.

Next installment features Mary Watson and all our favorite Scotland Yarders, as well as a couple extra. (Check the latest installment of Tales: "A Night out with the Yarders.") Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	3. 2: The Players of the Game

_© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire._

_All rights reserved._

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><p><strong>==Chapter II==<strong>

**The Players of the Game**

A knock sounded on the door.

Mary Watson opened her mouth to call for the maid, then sighed and rose from the very comfortable sofa to open the door herself. She knew that knock well. "Sherlock, good afternoon! Do come in!"

"Good afternoon to you, my dear Mary," Sherlock Holmes smiled as he stepped inside, his keen grey eyes flitting over her and doubtless deducing that she had a headache and was recovering from a cold. He hung up his own greatcoat and hat and rubbed his gloved hands together. "You really should consider hiring a new maid, you know, if you have to open the door yourself to visitors."

Mary laughed softly, then coughed. "I know it and John knows it, but we haven't the heart to dismiss Mary Jane."

Sherlock raised a sardonic eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the belated appearance of Mary Jane herself. "Mum?" she inquired, mortified.

"Never mind, dear," Mary assured her. "You may return to your duties."

"Yes, mum. Sorry, mum." The girl curtsied and hastily disappeared.

Mary's blue gaze slid over to meet Sherlock's grey gaze. "Don't, Sherlock," she warned.

"I beg your pardon?"

She stifled a cough. "You had something poised on the tip of your tongue—I could see it. Whatever it was, you needn't bother." She returned to the sitting room, the detective in tow.

"Mary, dear, I congratulate you on your growing powers of perception."

"Thank you, but the simple fact is I know you too well."

He chuckled. "Quite so." Then he sobered. "How are you?"

Mary's hand rose instinctively to an abdomen that was devoid of new life once more, despite two months having passed. As remembrance came, she lowered the hand. "A headache and a persistent cough, as you can see."

He took the errant hand in his own, and she could not help but marvel afresh at how gentle his touch could be. "That is not what I meant," he said quietly.

She looked down, unable to meet that penetrating gaze any longer. "I am… managing. As is John." She glanced back up. "Thank you for taking him on that case the other week. He needed the diversion."

"And you?"

She smiled briefly. "I listened to his tale afterwards, so we both benefited from it."

"I am glad to hear it."

She coughed again, the spell longer and harder this time. When she had finished, she saw Sherlock watching her with concern. "John _does_ realise that your cough is that bad?"

She nodded. "Just London. And the fall air. The combination with a cold is never pleasant." She cleared her throat. "I've been living in Britain for fifteen years now, and I still seem not to have gotten over India."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "You and John are warm-blooded creatures, thanks to your experiences in tropic climes. I, on the other hand, should probably be quite ill in that constant heat that would suit the two of you most comfortably."

"Sherlock Holmes, are you calling yourself _cold_-blooded?" He shrugged his shoulders with a rueful grin, and she laughed. "You poor thing. Ah, I am sorry John can't see you."

"I had considered that possibility."

She nodded again. "His schedule is full for the next two weeks—that time of year again. You are on a case?"

"Yes, but I merely wished to know if he had heard of the man I am investigating, a Mr. Culverton Smith."

"Culverton Smith," she repeated, rolling the "r" around her tongue. It was a holdover from her two years in Scotland that she had never quite shaken off, especially now, with a fully Scottish husband who lapsed into a definite brogue when he was tired. "I shall ask him over tea."

Sherlock nodded. "My thanks, Mary. And now, if you'll pardon me, I must be off."

"Very well." She sighed with pretended petulance. "It's never a social call with you."

"I've made social calls here before."

She shook her head in amusement. "No, you haven't. The only time you come here without being on a case is when we ask you specifically, and that is not a social call."

He glanced heavenward with affected saintly patience and said, "Very well. Next time t'will be a social call."

"Excellent," she smiled.

He shook his head. "Goodbye, Mary. Tell your husband I said hello."

"I shall. Goodbye, Sherlock, and good luck."

Mary did not understand why, as she watched him leave, proud and erect in the grey drizzle of October rain, she felt a sudden stab of fear.

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><p>By the end of the day, the Irregulars had procured the knowledge of Smith's weekend rounds in the East End. The fact that his Saturday evenings were spent in opium dens without him apparently ever using the drug himself was quite suggestive. <em>And if Smith is infecting victims on Saturdays, he must return to the vicinity at some point during the next week to observe the results<em>. _But __**why**__?_

There had to be some motive greater than the desire to study, if Smith was indeed the culprit of all these deaths. What was it? _That's the question that beats in my brain like a hammer_.

He could think of several reasons, all of them twisted and depraved. No matter what the motive, the fact was that such cold-blooded murder was no less than the work of a monster. Holmes knew well what depths to which humanity could sink, but to be reminded so vividly of those depths was never pleasant. He cast a longing eye at his beloved Stradivarius, but baring his soul in music would have to wait.

He picked up a borrowed medical magazine and flipped through it. Outside, rain lashed at the windows in a violent staccato—and no sign of it letting up any time soon. _Ah_.

**The Grim Reaper of ****Southeast Asia**

**by Culverton Smith**

Holmes took up his trusty black clay pipe and settled in to study his opponent.

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><p>"All right, now for it!"<p>

Two figures, one large and one small, dashed across the street from the shelter of an overhanging roof and burst into The Crooked Arrow Inn. The smaller figure dashed off his bowler hat, letting the rainwater drain to the floor, and smashed it firmly back onto his head. "Not bad timing!"

"It's still a mystery to me how you can keep up with Bradstreet, Lestrade," a voice boomed out from one of the tables.

"Don't try to solve it!" the larger of the newcomers advised, shaking out his peaked cap. "It'll hurt even your bright head, Gregson!"

The smaller man, one Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade, shook his head and made for the table around which several other Scotland Yarders were clustered. "Evening, all," he greeted, taking a seat beside young Sergeant Stanley Hopkins. The lad was five-and-twenty years of age but cursed with one of those faces that made him appear much younger, a fact which did little to inspire confidence amongst the civil population. He was one of the very few junior detectives, however, to socialise so much with the older generation, who recognised his dedication and intelligence.

"Sirs," Hopkins nodded respectfully.

"Lestrade, Bradstreet." Gregson lifted his tankard in salute.

Peter Athelney Jones merely gave a wave before he took a swig from his bottle, and Harold Morton smiled his greeting. Alec MacDonald grinned up from where he was lounging with the back of his chair against another table and his feet propped up on theirs. Bradstreet lowered his giant frame into the chair on the other side of Lestrade and folded his huge hands over the tabletop. "So? What goes on on this lovely London night?"

"Ferret Face didn't tell you?" Gregson wondered. Lestrade glanced heavenward and found himself wishing once again that Dr. Watson hadn't been quite so descriptive in _A Study in Scarlet_. "Whom you see about you are those who've been called in tonight to meet somebody coming in from the Home Office."

The atmosphere around the table instantly sobered. Bradstreet turned to Lestrade. "Do you know who?"

Lestrade nodded slowly, taking a cigarette from his coat. He needed a smoke every time he merely _thought_ about the man, much less spoke of him. "He's one of us," he said enigmatically. "So whatever you do, _don't_ stand in respect when you see him. He's one of us."

"Inspector, you're making me nervous," Hopkins said candidly.

"You should be, lad," Lestrade nodded, drawing in the smoke. "You should be."

Jones frowned. "If it's got Lestrade spooked, you know it's bad."

"Not _bad_," Lestrade chuckled nervously. "Well, no, that'd depend on your definition of 'bad.'"

"Good god, the man needs a drink," Gregson muttered.

"It's just… dash it, how did that Stamford bloke put it?" Lestrade took another drag from the cigarette. "_It is not easy to express the inexpressible_."

Hopkins eyebrows shot skyward. "That's from the Doctor's first story—his friend describing Mr. Holmes…"

Morton drummed his fingers on the table. "So we've got a Sherlock Holmes on the force, and nobody knew about it?"

Lestrade sighed. "Just wait and see."

One pint and three cigarettes later, Lestrade was feeling fortified enough to greet their visitor. The man slipped into the tavern so quietly and inconspicuously that Lestrade and Gregson were the only two to notice him. Then, next thing the former rivals knew, the newcomer was before their table and removing his bowler hat. "Good evening."

The other five Yarders all started in their seats and turned to gape at the man—Gregson was also gaping. Lestrade cherished the sight. "Evening, Patterson," he drawled. "Sit, man, you look half done-in."

Patterson nodded and took the one empty chair, between Gregson and Hopkins—the latter was staring unabashed at the newcomer. Lestrade almost chuckled at the lad's fishlike gape. "It's all right," said Patterson. "I know—it's odd."

"Odd?" Jones snorted in disbelief. "_Odd_ doesn't _begin_ to cover it!"

Patterson ran a hand through his dark hair and gave a smile which did not reach his ice-blue eyes. "Very well, it's unnatural. I've heard that, too."

"Bloody unbelievable, more like," muttered Morton, taking one long gulp of his ale.

"Inspector," Hopkins began, very tentatively, "you don't know if you possess any kinship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, do you?"

"I'm as far from the gentry as the rest of you, yourself excepted, Sergeant."

"That's not what I asked," Hopkins returned a bit more boldly.

"There's no relation that we know of," Lestrade interposed. "The man looks like the blooming twin of Sherlock Holmes. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

"Wait a moment," said Gregson, holding up one fat hand. "Lestrade, how the devil is it nobody but you knows about him?"

"Gregson, use those brains you're so proud of," Lestrade fired back, feeling good for doing so. "Patterson was sent by the _Home Office_."

"Mr. _Mycroft_ Holmes," Bradstreet said in understanding. "_Now_ we're getting somewhere."

"Oh, good Lord," Patterson murmured. Lestrade couldn't blame him.

"_Moving on_," the little detective said authoritatively. When he used that particular tone, even Gregson would stop to pay attention. "Patterson?"

"Thank you, Lestrade," the other nodded. "MacDonald, you once worked a case involving Professor James Moriarty, am I correct?"

The temperature of the room dropped by several degrees. The Scottish inspector slowly lowered his feet and raised his chair. "Back in January '88, aye."

Patterson nodded again, from behind laced fingers. _We mightn't have a family tree drawn up for him to know for certain,_ Lestrade thought, _but don't tell _me_ he's not related to Sherlock Holmes_ somehow. "I need a personal report on that case from you," Patterson continued.

"You can access my rep—"

"Not the official report, MacDonald—I want a _personal_ record from you. I'm afraid it's nearly three years late and the details are doubtless fogged in your mind, but I need whatever you can give me."

MacDonald traded an uncertain glance with Bradstreet. "All right…"

"Jones—" Patterson's eerily-familiar gaze turned to the man whose fame through Watson's stories was now even more dubious than Lestrade's or Gregson's—"your Red-headed League case was thought to have involved Moriarty?"

"Mr. Holmes's speculation after the fact, only, though mind you I'm a bit more open to it now than I used to be."

"Should've been all along," MacDonald muttered into his mug. "Man's a bloomin' _prodigy_, Jones."

"Sherlock Holmes, detective genius forever and ever, world without end, Amen," intoned Hopkins. His manner was solemn, but Lestrade caught a hint of a wink from Hopkins to MacDonald. He chewed down a smile—MacDonald and Hopkins were both young and Sherlock Holmes's most devoted admirers, John Watson aside.

Patterson's thin, aquiline features twisted in irritation. "_Gentlemen_," he said, for all the world sounding like a mother rebuking her sons. "Jones, I'd like a personal record from yourself, as well."

Morton frowned. "You're investigating Moriarty?"

"I am."

"The Old Man assigned him specially," Lestrade added.

Gregson rubbed at his temples, and Lestrade sympathised. "Let me get this straight: we're declaring war on the Professor? _Now_? After all this time?"

"Yes," Patterson said simply.

Gregson eyed him. "You've been on his trail for a long time."

"Most of my career, yes."

The large man snorted. "No wonder nobody knows you. You're, what, late thirties? At the oldest? So some fifteen years or more."

Blinking, Hopkins shook his head. "Wait a minute—he was _tapped_?"

"_That_ is a long story that needn't be told right now." Patterson's tone implied that it would not be told later, either.

"I repeat: why now?" Gregson persisted. "Why after all these years? _Our_ Mr. Holmes first heard the Professor's name back in '86, but I'll wager a year's salary that _Whitehall's_ Mr. Holmes has known about Moriarty longer."

Patterson leaned forward, his diffidence abruptly replaced by zealous excitement, and Lestrade shivered at the resemblance to Sherlock Holmes. It was simply wrong: _no_ man should be so much like another outside of twin-hood. "Because at last we have a _chance_," said Patterson, the ice-chips that served for his eyes glittering. "We have a chance to net this man as we've never had before."

"Because of Mr. Holmes," said MacDonald.

"Yes. Just look at his case record for this past year—thirty-seven out of _forty-six_ he's connected, in one way or another, to Moriarty! Until now, we've never had anyone in Scotland Yard or connected to it with the brilliance needed to match Moriarty's genius. But now we have a private detective—"

"Private _consulting_ detective," Hopkins corrected automatically.

"—private _consulting_ detective," Patterson agreed, "who is honing in on one of the greatest criminal masterminds London has ever seen! If _anyone_ can defeat the Professor, it's Holmes!"

"Now, wait a moment," Morton interjected, his dark eyes lit with the concern mirrored in his fellow detectives' expressions around the table, "Holmes is a _civilian_, Patterson. _We're_ the professionals, even if we're not on his level, intellectually—_we're_ the ones who are supposed to be taking the risks."

"Right," Gregson agreed, turning to Lestrade. "Lestrade, where does _Mycroft_ Holmes stand on this issue?"

Lestrade sighed. "Mr. Mycroft Holmes is as diffident as his brother is energetic. I think he's genuinely concerned for his little brother—" even in the sober atmosphere, several of the men could not help but snort at that description of the amateur who ran circles around them—"but he'll not interfere."

"As if he could hold him back, anyway," Bradstreet pointed out. "Mr. Mycroft may be high up in the Home Office, but Mr. Sherlock would defy the Queen herself to finish what he started, come hell or high water."

"Bradstreet!" Jones said sharply.

"Did I say anything that _wasn't_ true?" Bradstreet retorted.

"Enough," Gregson groaned. "Patterson, just tell me that you _won't_ be using Sherlock Holmes in this war Whitehall is apparently declaring on Moriarty."

"I will go no further in using him than you yourselves have."

If Patterson had abruptly announced his intention to take up a life of crime, he could not have cut them all more swiftly. Silence hung heavy over the table, the only focal point of life anywhere in the room—none but the police had dared venture out in the driving rain merely to get a drink.

At last, Lestrade swallowed his pride and spoke—very, very softly. "All right, you're right. God knows you're right. But, Patterson, the stakes have never been so high before—it was fairly small fry with us in the past, that Birlstone mix-up excepted." He met the taller man's gaze squarely, his tone now deadly quiet. "And if Sherlock Holmes comes to any harm because _you_ placed him in harm's way… by George, I'll see you kicked out of the Yard so fast you won't even know what's happening 'til you hit the pavement. Are we clear on that?"

Patterson might have been carved from marble, so emotionless was his pale face. "Perfectly, Lestrade."

* * *

><p>Holmes rose from his armchair and stoked the fire—no warm-blooded creature was he, but the night was growing chill even for him. He poured himself his third cup of coffee and returned to his seat with the fourth of Culverton Smith's monographs. The topics themselves were fascinating—diseases, endemics, and pandemics—but the writing itself and the passion behind it…<p>

He wanted to meet the man just to shake his hand for his genius. These glimpses into Smith's calculating mind were fascinating.

He had nothing as of yet that could condemn Smith as a murderer—the opium houses were the strongest support to young Savage's fears, but that could not hold up in a court of law. The morrow would see the commencement of Holmes's personal field investigation. Lestrade was right about one thing: sometimes, there was nothing like good old-fashioned tracking.

_Holmes, the sleuth-hound,_ Watson called him on occasion.

_Well_. Holmes's lips curved upward. _I have a scent to follow, at least_. Every ounce of his instinct agreed with Savage's reckoning, but the logician built his cases up of facts, not feelings.

_Tomorrow_. That in mind, Holmes cast down the monograph and picked up his violin case. He was not surprised when the tune that came to his fingers was the "Dead March."

* * *

><p>With Patterson's departure, the other seven Yarders breathed a collective sigh of relief. "I need another drink," Jones moaned. "That man gives me the shivers."<p>

Lestrade was down to his sixth cigarette for the evening. "Hum," he said noncommittally.

"Have to admit," Gregson drawled, "I've always wondered what it would be like to have Sherlock Holmes as one of us. Now I don't have to wonder, and I don't like it one bit."

"It's disturbing," Lestrade agreed.

"_Disturbing_?" Hopkins echoed incredulously. "The man's bloody full of himself!"

Morton shook his head. "No, lad, he's _arrogant_. There's a difference."

"Full of himself or arrogant," said MacDonald, "he's going to get people killed. And here I used to think Mr. _Holmes's_ obsession with Moriarty was bad." He shook his head solemnly.

"Mr. Holmes isn't police or military—he's a vigilante," Lestrade pointed out. "He'll sacrifice no one's wellbeing but his own. Remember the counterfeit case of '88?"

"Tore himself to pieces with guilt, he did," Bradstreet mused. "I don't think he looked the Doctor in the eye for months."

"Then along came Miss Morstan September of that year," Gregson added. "Wouldn't be a bit surprised if Holmes ended up _glad_ she took Watson out of the line of fire."

"Thank God she did," Morton said seriously. "I'd hate to think of Holmes now without Watson."

"Flip that coin, Morton," Lestrade said, _sotto voce_. "I'd hate to think of Watson without Holmes." The other man stared at him. Lestrade sighed and shook his head. "You didn't know Mr. Holmes very well in the early days. He was… well, let's just say he was _very_ young. I know you've all heard nightmare tales about the cases before Watson, but the fact is that Sherlock Holmes in his early twenties was a young man I would not have wagered on reaching his thirtieth year. Given the right circumstances, he could revert to such a state, and then where would we be if something happened to him? And just think of what it would do to Watson."

Lestrade, Gregson, and Morton were the three present who'd known Watson from that first year, 1881. They all remembered the quiet, solemn young soldier disillusioned with life. Lestrade had not known Watson before Holmes, but it did not take a genius to realise that the amateur detective had given the wounded doctor a fresh purpose in life. Things were different now, and Watson had a wife and practise, too, but… The little detective shuddered to think of the warm, spirited John Watson suddenly bereft of his closest friend. That was the stuff nightmares were made of.

And with Sherlock Holmes being made a player in this upcoming war against London's great crime syndicate, it was a scenario within the realm of possibility.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

The full sequence from which "A Night out with the Yarders" was taken. It's one of my favorite scenes so far. =) Writing those boys is so much fun! Lestrade and Gregson can be so snarky, and Hopkins and MacDonald (VALL) can be so fanboy! And I just plain loved writing Lestrade, period (as always, but this time was especially enjoyed). ^_^

Patterson, on the other hand… Patterson is interesting no matter which way you look at him—he was the inspector chosen to take down Professor Moriarty. That's special. _He's_ got to be special… And I'm proud of the cut that he made at the other Yarders when they got concerned about Holmes's wellbeing, and then Lestrade's retort. _Ouch_. Aragonite made a very good point about Holmes throughout her _Sword for Defense_ series: the Yarders' guilt at Holmes's "death" to defeat Moriarty when it was _their_ job to risk _their_ lives for _him_, rather than the other way around. They ostensibly don't mind a civilian solving their cases for them (it gets the job done, and justice is served), but it's _not_ the _civilian's_ place to be risking his life for _them_.

As for Inspector Morton… yes, this is the same Morton as appears in DYIN. Watson calls him an "old friend," but it's the only time he ever appears in Canon. To explain the usage of that term, I have Morton as one of the few inspectors who'd known (somewhat well) Watson since his first year with Holmes.

And writing Holmes and Mary together was just lovely. If you've read the ebook version of AMM, then you know kind of the setup to this sibling chemistry between them—which, I think, is not very farfetched. The aforementioned AMM story also explains why they're using each other's Christian names, at least in private. I really do not like Holmes-and-Mary-dislike-each-other chemistry in stories, I must say; it's not only _non_-canonical but _un_-canonical—the little material that we see in the Canon points to them respecting and, yes, even liking each other. Holmes didn't let go of his respect for Mary even when Watson told him about the engagement (Watson asks if Holmes is dissatisfied with his choice; Holmes says no).

Next up, things start spiraling down. Different characters have different concerns, and tragedy strikes. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	4. 3: How Frail the Heart

**Author's Note:**

Thank you to my reviewers, subscribers, and favoriters! =)

Bit of Mycroft in this chapter. We say "hello" to Mr. Culverton Smith… And we have tragedy.

**To my reviewers:**

For once, I'm doing a generalized reply—let's see how it works! First of all, there's a lot that's being introduced in these first few chapters that will be explained and/or explored more in-depth further on in the story. That's the difference between a serial fic and the first novel of a series. ;-) This includes such elements as Patterson being sort of an older, harder Sherlock Holmes with a badge; Holmes's relationship with Mary; and Holmes's captivity in the prologue. In fact, the prologue itself is just _part_ of a scene that will occur later in the book, and the prologue's purpose is to create a sense of alarm for Holmes and pull the reader right in.

And I take back part of what I said before: I need to hear that you love it. =D That is A-OK with me. I've got more than a bit of writer's block right now. =(

To MadameGiry25, specifically, as a combined reply to her critiques: First off, let me just say that I do appreciate your longish critiques, and they do get me thinking. If what I'm about to say sounds like arguments to you, it's just me explaining some of the "questions" you raised.

1. You said to "let you in to Holmes's mind" in the prologue, but I did do just that. It was in Holmes's mental voice; he was tired and hurting and scared, and I don't know how to put it any plainer without losing his voice and characterization altogether. There's nothing so overt as using the words "terror" or "fear," but a good writer doesn't always need to use them, and I don't think I did. As far as surroundings go, it's not really necessary for the purpose of the prologue, and the surroundings will be described later when we come full circle to reach that part of the story.

2. Wiggins's maturity _was_ established before he was bodily introduced into the story: "It had been ten years since [Holmes had] literally stumbled across Davy Wiggins," and "the original twelve Irregulars who were now all grown to manhood." Wiggins would _have_ to be early twenties—to have stated it explicitly after the introductory five paragraphs about the Irregulars would have been superfluous.

3. You said "bringing Watson's predicaments into the end of the chapter seemed a bit out of place." But two things about that part: a) Watson doesn't have any actual predicaments, and b) it's still Holmes's contemplation. It's him stewing over his long-standing argument with Wiggins, and why he won't involve Watson as Wiggins wants him to. Of course, being the author of a piece of writing can blind one to certain things, but I think I've gotten pretty good at catching out-of-place stuff. Holmes's thoughts about Watson were just the natural flow of his mind, as well as a necessary set-up to Watson's involvement in the story.

4. Chapter 2: Good point about the POV—will work on it. And thrilled that you enjoyed the Yarder scene!

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter III==<strong>

**How Frail the Heart**

The envelope flap is unusually sharp and slices his skin.

"Ah!" He raises the offended finger to his mouth and sucks at it briefly. The letter is removed and perused, a missive from one of the committee members. It is then laid aside, and no further thought is given to the minute line of red on his right forefinger.

XXX

Conversations with Sherlock Holmes were bad enough, thanks to the man's irritating predilection for pulling thoughts and events out of one's head the way a magician pulled a rabbit out of his hat. And that wasn't even mentioning the scathing sarcasm. Conversations with _Mycroft_ Holmes could be downright unnerving.

Just Lestrade's luck that he had to deal with both on a regular basis.

The inspector could not help but marvel at the contrasts between the two brothers every time he met with Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock was 6'2", thin almost to the point of emaciation, and pale as porcelain, with soft black hair and sharp grey eyes that seemed to shift colour with his moods. Towering even over his younger brother, Mycroft was fully six-and-a-half feet in height, corpulent, and robust in complexion, with chestnut brown hair and grey eyes so pale that the irises seemed to disappear at times. Lestrade was one of the few Londoners who knew that Mycroft took after the father and Sherlock after the mother, though the brothers shared their father's hawk-like nose and their mother's high cheekbones.

"I don't like him, Mr. Holmes. Patterson, you understand." When conversing with the Holmes brothers, directness was always the best tactic—they'd pull the words from your mouth, otherwise. "Inspector MacDonald believes that he'll get people killed, and I agree."

Mycroft peered at the smaller man over the tips of his fingers. "I understand your sentiment, Lestrade, and I even agree with MacDonald's assessment—but the fact is that we have no one else properly qualified to lead in this case. Even my brother has not had the experience with James Moriarty that Patterson has. Patterson is the one man in London who knows both sides of the conflict so intimately."

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. "I understand that, sir. But I don't like it. People will die."

"An inevitable consequence of such a conflict," the other said quietly.

Lestrade shook his head. "I know that, sir. But I think that… more will die than as need to."

The large man nodded ponderously. "I shall be keeping a close watch on the proceedings, Inspector, Patterson included—of that, you may be assured."

The detective sighed. "Very well, sir. I shan't waste your time further, then." He rose to leave the office.

"Inspector?"

Lestrade turned half around again. "Yes?"

"My brother has made it quite clear that Dr. Watson shall play a minimal role in this upcoming investigation."

It was said so calmly that a complete stranger would have thought the elder Holmes to be making a passing remark—Lestrade knew better. He read between the lines: Sherlock Holmes would be working without a bodyguard, and Mycroft Holmes was concerned. "I'll keep an eye on him as much as I can, Mr. Holmes." He did it those first four years before Watson; he could do it again.

The government official's stern face eased slightly. "Thank you, Inspector."

* * *

><p>The younger of the Holmes brothers had entered opium dens before on investigations, but he never liked it. There was nothing to enjoy in the sight of so many human beings, from the wealthy to the near-destitute, lounging about in various stages of physical and mental vegetation. At least his own seven-per-cent solution of cocaine <em>stimulated<em> rather than hampered his mental processes. And his usage of his drug was mere habit, not the addiction that led to so many poor souls being unable, in mind and body, to live without their drug.

But in the deepest part of his heart, he recognised himself in these people, knew that their fate could all too easily become his own. All he had to do was misjudge the dose of his injection… and the idea chilled him to his core. It was a thought that he could never entertain for long.

He sat in the shadows, disguised as the same decrepit old man that had once arrested John Watson's attention whilst the good doctor had been on a mission to rescue a friend. Holmes sat in the shadows and watched Culverton Smith move amongst the addicts. Over two decades later, in a remarkable pique of spite, Watson would recreate both Smith's physical appearance and personality into that of a contemptible, middle-aged madman. But the truth was quite removed from future stories of _The Strand_.

Smith bore a passing resemblance to his step-nephew in his facial features, but his slicked black hair, keen dark eyes, and bronzed skin could almost have passed him off a native of his former home. Welsh or Breton ancestry, probably—quite unlike the very Anglo-Saxon Victor Savage. And where Savage had borne himself with the easy grace of an athlete, Smith moved with the stealth of a shadow, though Holmes had no doubt that the man carried himself with the cold hauteur of an aristocrat in broad daylight. The detective wondered at first that his target did not bother to hide his identity, then realised there was no need—these people would not be able to pull any semblance of memory together to report to a policeman, much less testify in court. And the owner, no doubt, received a considerable sum for his cooperation.

"_There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights."_

"_What! You do not mean bodies?"_

"_Aye, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £1000 for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den."_

Was Smith being paid to eliminate targets in these dens? Had this been Brittany, he would have suspected goods being smuggled alongside bodies on their way from Brittany to England to be buried. But this was the wrong side of the Channel…

And it was a capital mistake to theorise without data.

Holmes willed his mind to quiet, laced his fingers together, and hunched further down in his chair, his eyes never once leaving the amateur pathologist. Holmes followed Smith from den to den that night, changing costume each time. Five visits in all, and, in each of them, Smith had been close enough to several people to have injected or poked them with something poisonous. It was on the last visit that an incident occurred which stilled Holmes's heart very briefly.

Smith stopped right before him and bent down. Holmes kept his eyes lowered, and maintained a steady stream of quiet, incoherent babble. He felt rather than saw Smith's contemptuous smile, and the man reached down to pat his shoulder—it took considerable willpower not to flinch away from the touch. And then, Smith was gone.

Holmes stared after him, a shiver tingling down his spine. Had he been discovered?

* * *

><p>After nearly a week of investigation, Sherlock Holmes had frustratingly little to show for it, certainly nothing that would hold up to a jury. A visit to Victor Savage in West Norwood was in order.<p>

The estate was expansive and grand, the kind of grounds intended to make one forget that the world's largest metropolis lay less than a mile away. The house sat far back from the road, impressive in size and design. An old Georgian home, it must have been red brick when it was first built, and had faded over time to a rust colour—though it was no less beautiful for it.

_Men have killed for far less splendour_.

The butler was old and undoubtedly an attachment to the Savage family from his youth. The small, slight man's lean face was wrinkled with sorrow—the average observer would have attributed it to the recent death of the elder Mr. Savage, but Holmes saw otherwise. The grief was a raw, bone-penetrating thing, and a knot formed in Holmes's stomach. He wordlessly handed the old man his card, who took one look at it and nodded mournfully. "Mr. Savage has been expecting you," the butler said quietly. "This way, please."

Holmes followed the man though an ornate hall whose trappings had not changed much in the past century, and up a grand staircase. His heart grew heavier with each step as he feared now the worst. At last, they halted at richly-appointed bedchambers, and Holmes shut his eyes for a moment before entering.

Victor Savage lay in the four post bed, his emaciated frame dwarfed by the bedclothes. His pale skin gleamed with sweat, fever spots flushed his cheeks, and dark crust covered his lips. He was asleep, though the slumber was not restful—he tossed and mumbled unintelligibly. A doctor rose from his post at the bedside to greet the detective. "Mr. Holmes, yes? Mr. Savage told me you would come. I am Dr. Ainstree."

The detective knew Ainstree by reputation, the greatest living authority upon tropical disease; he had not heard, however, that the doctor was in London. "Doctor, is it fatal?"

The older man bowed his head. "I'm afraid it is, Mr. Holmes. I could possibly create an antidote, but such an action would take several days, and young Savage has been ill for nearly four. I estimate but a few more hours, if that. He will not live to see the sunset."

Holmes felt a tightening in his chest as he neared the bed. The Grim Reaper was the one foe that, in the end, he could not defeat. "You were called in too late," he said, _sotto voce_.

"Yes. Mr. Holmes…" The detective turned. "I know this disease by reputation; it is Asiatic. So tell me: how did a young English banker who never even ventures to the East End contract it?"

Holmes turned back to regard his young client. "Have you heard of a Mr. Culverton Smith?"

"Culverton Smith… ah, yes, the amateur pathologist of Sumatra."

"He is Savage's step-uncle. Once Savage dies, he will inherit."

"Good heavens," Ainstree breathed. "Have you any proof…"

"Unfortunately not. Smith is very, very careful—but all my instincts tell me that he is to blame for this."

Savage stirred then, and his blue eyes opened, bright with fever. "Mr. Holmes," he groaned.

Holmes bent low over the young man. "Shh, I am here."

"Can you—have you—my uncle…"

Holmes shook his head. "Not yet, Savage, but justice shall be done, I swear to you."

"So cool and green… the shade this time of year… monsters, though… horrible monsters lurking in the woods…" Savage covered his face with his hands, as if to shield his eyes from whatever horrors his mind beheld.

Holmes watched, rubbing unconsciously at his chest where he felt a small twinge. The circumstances were so far removed, but the memory came, nevertheless…

"Argh!" The invalid's hands flew to his abdomen, where they clutched with spasmodic strength as he doubled over in torment. "Oh, God—Doctor!"

Ainstree's genteel face was pained as he leaned over the sickbed. "Sir, I've explained before," he said over the cries. "I can sedate you with morphine, and you will die in your sleep; or you can remain fairly lucid but in pain."

"Dear God, help me!" the boy pleaded. "Emily! Oh, Emily!"

"He is engaged," Holmes murmured.

"I was given to understand that," the doctor nodded.

"Mr. Holmes!" Savage's right hand shot out and clutched convulsively at the detective's left forearm, the lad's blue eyes staring pleadingly up at the older man. "Mr. Holmes, tell her, please! Let her hear it from you!"

"She shall."

"Tell her I'm sorry! Tell her I'm sorry… Oh, God in Heaven…" The eyes slid shut again, though the hand remained clinging to Holmes's arm. He remained there, unmoving, until the hand slipped down and the chest slowed its rising and falling, and stopped altogether. Holmes gripped the lifeless wrist for a moment, then gently laid the hand over the still breast.

_Automaton_ was a fine word to describe him just then. He felt numb, as if watching the entire sordid drama through someone else's eyes. It was a broken, meaningless world that met his gaze.

"Doctor, might I trouble you for a favour?" he heard himself whisper.

"If I may be of service, I shall." Ainstree reverently laid the coverlet over Victor Savage's bloodless face, and Holmes felt his heart start to beat again.

"I would like the medical community to know that Culverton Smith is under suspicion for questionable ethics. I want his reputation in tatters." The coolness of Sherlock Holmes's voice betrayed nary a hint of the sudden passion in his breast, and he turned to Ainstree with a grim smile. "If he is desperate, he shall slip up, and then he may be caught."

The doctor eyed him solemnly. "And if he discovers who is investigating him, he shall go after that man."

Holmes's gaze intensified. "That is why I am depending upon you to create that antidote."

"I see."

"It is always good to have a safety net."

"Of course." Ainstree pondered a moment. "Very well, Mr. Holmes. I shall do as you say." The doctor placed his hand on Holmes's forearm. "But I urge you to take the utmost care."

_That is what Savage promised to do, and here he lies_. "I shall. Good day to you, Dr. Ainstree."

"Good day, Mr. Holmes."

The detective chose to walk rather than drive to Norwood Station, his free hand firmly shoved into his pocket and his shoulders hunched. A bird chirped somewhere, and the autumn sun warmed the earth. It was wrong, this cheerfulness. It was all wrong.

Even Holmes's rational mind had never been able to reconcile a lovely, sunny day with a murder.

Back in London—Kensington, to be precise—he stood in yet another lovely home and awaited Miss Emily Fitzwilliam, having learned the address of Savage's fiancée from the butler. Memories pushed at the edge of his consciousness, clamouring to be released after twelve years of imprisonment. He resolutely ignored them and waited with a stance as stiff as stone.

Watson had created the phrase "an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents" for _The Sign of the Four_, and Holmes could truthfully claim the same experience. The two loveliest women he had ever met had to have been Irene Norton and Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope, but Emily Fitzwilliam could not have been far behind. A petite young woman, she bore a strong resemblance to a flaxen-haired china doll. "Mr. Holmes," she greeted, "what an honour to meet you! My fiancé holds you in the very highest regard. Do sit down!"

"Miss Fitzwilliam, I prefer to stand," Holmes said quietly.

Her pretty face creased into a frown. "My dear sir, whatever is the matter?"

He carefully emptied his mind of all but his task and said gently, "I fear I come bearing only grief for you. Mr. Victor Savage has just passed away."

All colour drained instantly from her already-pale face. "_What?_" she gasped.

"He contracted a rare illness." A memory broke past his mental barriers, a voice shocked and anguished, crying out to Heaven in the hope to see some reason for a senseless death. "It was swift, and he suffered but little. He bade me tell you that he was sorry."

For all the appearance of physical fragility she bore, Emily Fitzwilliam must have been strong of spirit. The similarity between herself and Mary Watson was not lost on Holmes. She neither swooned nor burst into passionate weeping—she merely stared up at him with grief-stricken grey eyes. He knew that look all too well, recalled seeing it in the mirror once upon a time. She was shattering within, but she refused to crumble just yet. "He needn't have," she whispered.

He waited a full minute for her to say anything more, and he had just decided to leave when she spoke again. "Why did he not send for me?" Betrayal laced her very quiet voice.

He nearly shut his eyes against a memory of a beloved voice, long gone, answering him when he had asked the same question. "Perhaps… perhaps he wished your last memory of him to be a happy one."

She nodded slowly, silently. A beat. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes."

"My sincerest condolences, Miss Fitzwilliam." He tipped his hat in respect and left the parlour; he had reached the front door when at last he heard very quiet weeping.

Outside, clouds rolled across the sun once more.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I enjoyed doing the physical descriptions of the Brothers Holmes, especially Mycroft. I must say, even though I really like Charles Gray (Granada) as Mycroft, he's just far too old from the start. Thus, Mark Gatiss's modern-day Mycroft is more my mental image of the man.

Also, it's lovely to do my own back-story for "The Dying Detective," especially Victor Savage. Neither Granada nor the BBC radio drama are very sympathetic to the poor man: the former has him as an opium addict, and the other as a spoiled brat. Interestingly, both shows characterize Culverton Smith quite differently from the Canon. I decided to take a page from their books and try my own rendition—I'm quite satisfied with the results, and, by the time you've read Chapter 6, I hope you readers will be, as well.

It nearly broke my heart to write Victor's death and Emily's reaction. And… I think that Holmes's heart broke, too, just a little bit. As for his memories… well, you'll get more information on that in future chapters. To go deeper now would be to detract the focus from Victor's death.

Next up, we meet an old… "friend"… and finally see Watson. We also see the Yarders again. And, at last, Holmes finds himself in danger. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	5. 4: The Highest Degree Sinister

**Author's Note:**

Hey, let me know what you guys think about Watson in this chapter… Something about him is rubbing me wrong… (Then again, Holmes has always been easier to write, ironically, than Watson. Don't ask me why!)

Btw, anybody here know the cartoon _Sherlock Holmes in the 22__nd__ Century_? I've recently started writing fic for it—just check my profile. (And if you think that you can't get anything deep out of a cartoon, just read today's new SH22 fic. ^_^)

Plus, I actually have updated the blog—**www(dot)studysherlockiana(dot)blogspot(dot)com**—in the past month. The one post was "Top 10 Favorite Sherlockian Characters," and the other was "Else our universe is ruled by chance," which briefly discusses a Mary Russell novel and dives into the theological beliefs of Sherlock Holmes. Believe it or not, you don't have to dig very deep into the Canon to find that Sherlock Holmes has very strong Christian beliefs. Please check it out!

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: Well, I don't think you're going overboard just yet. =) I really do love your long reviews—it's the long ones that are often my favorites. Glad you enjoyed Mycroft, last chapter and in my other stories—I love him so much! As to Smith's disease, some Sherlockians have speculated that it was Melioidosis, a real Southeastern Asian disease endemic to the region. After looking it up, I agreed that it was, indeed, similar, and decided to use it in the story. However, I could not find much about actual _symptoms_, so what you read was based on Holmes's "performance" (tongue firmly in cheek) in DYIN. It's not an unreasonable guess that Smith tweaked the disease, especially considering the fact that there was next to no incubation period for the illness—it started its work very quickly, and finishes it in four days. That's unnaturally fast for the real-life thing. Thrilled that you "felt" the scene and thought Holmes IC—I was very satisfied with him in that scene. Thank you very much!

bemj11: Thank you very much! So glad you liked the Lestrade-Mycroft scene—and your reaction to the Victor and Emily scenes was gratifying. =)

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter IV==<strong>

**The Highest Degree Sinister**

Fog hung low and heavy over the city, street lamps barely penetrating the murk. The chill gloom of a London Hallo'een, however, paled in comparison to the cold dark permeating the office tucked away in the back of a respectable club. The gas lamps were lit, but their pale light offered little warmth to the opulent room.

A thin, dark man of average height stood before the desk, his bronzed face imperturbably stoic. On the other side of the desk sat a tall, slender man analysing a sheet of foolscap. The cool air of mastery of the latter left no doubt as to who controlled this interview.

"You murdered your nephew with your exotic disease," the tall man said tonelessly, not even deigning to look up from the paper.

"Yes," the other acknowledged calmly.

"And Sherlock Holmes is now on the case."

"Yes…"

"He has found you out."

"He has no evidence, and I am not certain—"

"Oh, but I am, sir," the tall man interjected smoothly, at last favouring his visitor with a serene smile. "I have my sources, Mr. Smith, as well you know, and even did I not, it is quite inconceivable that the amateur detective should fail to connect you to the murder."

"…yes, sir?" The subordinate was a man of no little self-confidence, but only a fool would be anything less than cautious in dealing with the man behind the desk.

"I believe my instructions were for you to acquire a different test subject for your malignant experiments, opium dens aside," the tall man continued calmly. "Now, thanks to your unrestrained lust for your brother's estate, the most brilliant detective in London is hot on your trail."

"I didn't think—"

"Indeed, sir, you did _not_ think. It was all too easy for Holmes to link you to Savage's death, as I warned you it would be. I can arrange for you to disappear if you wish, but you had best leave our private consulting detective alone. _I_ shall deal with him when I am ready."

In an attempt to salvage his pride, Culverton Smith drew himself up with wounded dignity. "You speak, sir, as if I would attempt to infect Holmes himself."

The penetrating gaze of the cold iron-grey eyes, steady though the domed head slowly turned back and forth, was enough to unnerve even men of not-inconsiderable constitution, such as Smith. After a few moments, his master spoke again. "Indeed, Mr. Smith, you shall not." The man rose slowly to his feet until he, abruptly exuding a quiet but intense and malevolent power, towered over Smith. "To do so would be to court unavoidable disaster."

"I shall not, of course," Smith said tonelessly.

The domed head dipped once in regal acknowledgement. "If you wish to affect a disappearance, you had best decide soon. If Holmes acquires the necessary evidence to convict you, even I might be unable to aid you."

Smith lifted his chin fractionally. "He has no concrete evidence, sir—there is no murder weapon. Any so-called evidence would be circumstantial at best."

The other man gave him a long look before returning his attention to the papers on his desk. More than a little unsettled, Smith nearly bowed before beating as hasty a retreat as was properly possible. As soon as he was out of earshot, the tall man called, "Colonel."

A large man possessed of a powerful physique entered the room and stood at attention. "Yes, Professor?"

"What think you of Mr. Culverton Smith?"

The Colonel snorted. "He is a fool, sir. Too convinced of his own ideas, too unyielding."

"Quite so." One corner of the Professor's mouth pulled back, but there was no warmth in the expression. "But a useful fool, he remains. His knowledge of exotic diseases is too valuable an asset for us to dispose of just yet. For now, he has our protection."

"Yes, sir," the Colonel said reluctantly, and perhaps a trifle resentfully.

"Patience, my dear Colonel. Once we have cultivated a sufficient replacement for Mr. Smith, you may have your way with him."

The smile of the retired soldier was the feral, predatory smile of a tiger.

* * *

><p>The man stared up at the window of the first floor for a few moments, fingering his walking-stick in thought. Making up his mind, he ascended the steps and unlocked the door, stepping inside and calling, "Mrs. Hudson?"<p>

"Dr. Watson!" the landlady cried happily from another room. She hurried out to Watson and took his hat and coat. "Oh, it's so good to see you again!"

"Mrs. Hudson, I could never stay away for long," John Watson smiled, taking her hand and kissing it.

"Doctor. Always the gallant," she smiled, her free hand reaching back to pat her dark hair. Some women blushed when flattered; Mrs. Hudson patted her hair.

"Is Holmes in?" Watson asked, pretending not to notice.

"Upstairs, and on a case." Her expression sobered. "He's been very grave these past few days."

Watson's heart sank. "Someone has died during the investigation, then," he said quietly.

"I think that… seeing you will do his heart good."

The doctor rubbed at his bad arm, glad that Holmes at least had Mrs. Hudson to take care of him. "I'll see what I can do," he assured her, climbing quietly up the steps, hoping to take his sharp-eared friend by surprise. He cracked the sitting room door open and poked his head in. "Good afternoon, Holmes."

The detective spun around from his position at the desk, his face lighting up. "Watson! Do come in!"

Watson grinned and entered, letting Holmes take him by the arm and direct him to his old armchair. "You look busy."

"I am. I'm in the midst of a most serious mystery."

"Should I leave then, or might I be of service?"

Only someone well-versed in the body language of Sherlock Holmes would have caught the split-second hesitation. "Neither is necessary, my dear fellow."

Watson raised an eyebrow.

"Mrs. Watson told me how busy you yourself are."

Watson nodded his understanding. "I do have a sudden influx of patients."

"Exactly. It would be selfish of me to take you from them."

"Mm. So, this investigation. Mary told me you were asking about a Mr. Culverton Smith?"

It was Holmes's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Watson, that was over a week ago."

Watson nodded again, slowly. "I know, and I'm sorry. The truth is that, I've never heard of him before."

"Ah. He is an amateur in the field of pathology."

"I see. And you are investigating him?"

The detective did not miss a beat. "Perhaps." _Oh, no_, thought Watson. When Sherlock Holmes played evasive to a deadpan degree, it was cause for concern.

And withdrawal. "Very well, Holmes," said Watson, rising. "I'll leave you to it. Do tell me if I'm needed, and do come round for dinner sometime—any day is fine."

"Watson, wait." That was spoken in a weary tone—Watson turned back and saw the younger man pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, old fellow."

"What on earth is the matter, Holmes?" Watson asked gently, taking a step closer.

Holmes took a step back, as if any physical contact could hurt him. "I cannot say for certain just yet, Watson," he said calmly, though his deep grey eyes pleaded with his friend to understand. "You shall know all when _cursum perficio_."

Watson sighed. "As you wish, my dear fellow." He ran a brief analysis his friend's physical state. "When have you eaten last?"

The detective cast him a deprecating glance. "My dear fellow, you know my habits when on a case of importance."

"'At present I cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion'—oh, Holmes," Watson sighed again. "Then I suppose you wouldn't care for Simpson's?"

Holmes had turned away, but now his gaze slowly slid back to his friend. "Watson, let no one say you do not possess a streak of deviousness in you. Tempting me with my favourite restaurant is most unfair."

Watson smirked. "'All's fair in love and war,' old man," he said brightly, grabbing Holmes's forearm and pulling him away from the desk. "Now shed your dressing gown and we'll go. That is, unless something truly terrible will happen if you leave?"

Holmes shook his head in silent amusement. "No, I do not believe so."

"Jolly good. I'll go hail a cab."

* * *

><p>"'I'll keep an eye on him,' I say. Ha! My complete <em>lack<em> of brilliance astounds _myself_ sometimes, because, dash it all, how am I to keep an eye on him if I'm tied up with a forgery case and he's tied up with… whatever it is he's working at now?"

In storming his way down the busy hall to his office, Lestrade suddenly found himself eye to shoulder with Gregson. He looked up, and his former rival cocked one flaxen eyebrow. "Was there something you _wanted_ to share with the rest of the Yard, Lestrade?"

The smaller man folded his arms over his chest as the traffic of the Yard flowed around them. To the casual observer, such an image would have been amusing: the slender, 5'7" Lestrade adopting a belligerent stance towards the stocky, 6'3" Gregson. But every Yarder, down to the youngest Constable, knew better that to underestimate an agitated Geoffrey M. Lestrade. "Other than my extreme _perturbation_ at being occupied with one case while Sherlock Holmes is on another, when I promised his all-knowing brother I'd look out for him? Oh, nothing a-t'all!"

Both flaxen eyebrows went up. "You promised Mycroft Holmes you'd… Lestrade, are you finally breaking under pressure? Truly?"

"You needn't worry about Holmes for the time being, Lestrade," Morton called as he approached them. "He came round here yesterday and found you gone, so he dragged me into his investigation."

Lestrade exhaled slowly. "What's he on about now?"

"Culverton Smith, amateur student of diseases—it's a medico-criminal case." Morton stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Smith's nephew—hearty young lad—hires Holmes to investigate his uncle, then up and dies suddenly, of a disease Smith apparently has studied in-depth."

"Ah, coincidence," Gregson said knowingly. "We all know how much Holmes hates _that_."

Lestrade impatiently shifted from one foot to the other. "Yes, well, can we talk about this in my _office_? I need to be looking up an old case, 1878: Cooper and Sanderson."

"Fine by me," Morton shrugged, falling into pace with Lestrade's shorter but rapid strides.

"Cooper and Sand… wasn't that Holmes's first official case with the Yard?" Gregson mused aloud.

"Yes," Lestrade said shortly. "Now, Morton?"

"Well, with the nephew dead, Smith inherits his stepbrother's estate," Morton continued. "They don't come much more cold-blooded than that."

Gregson stepped aside to allow Lestrade into his own office first. "And the problem with the case?"

"No evidence."

Lestrade and Gregson winced as one—considering their infamous past rivalry, it was a sight to behold. "I don't envy you that investigation, then, Morton," Lestrade said feelingly.

"Thank you," Morton said dryly. "Where are your '78 cases?"

"That cabinet," Lestrade pointed. "But they might also be in that box." He pointed again.

"Can't wait 'til the full move," Gregson muttered.

"Oh, Lord, it's already a nightmare," Lestrade returned, diving into the box while Morton checked the cabinet. "We shan't be settled for _months_. So, Morton—" his head was actually inside the box now, muffling his voice, "anything else to this case?"

"Yes, as matter of fact. Mr. Holmes has tentatively connected Smith to a smuggling ring in Rotherhithe, thinks they're bringing in actual bacteria samples from Asia for Smith to study and use."

Lestrade gave a low whistle.

Gregson picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk and idly glanced through them. "Sounds as though Smith's got very high connexions." The name _Moriarty_ hung unspoken in the air.

"I had thought of that," Morton admitted from where he was rifling through the file cabinet. "I mean to talk with Patterson later… Lestrade, I thought you were neater than this!"

"I _am_! It's this blasted move, and I made the mistake of having PC Douglas help me pack my papers." The little detective gave a triumphant shout and shot up out of the box, beaming and bearing his precious file. "Thanks, nonetheless, Morton, and best of luck with your case. You'll need it."

* * *

><p>The music this night is fantastic.<p>

Were Watson present, he might praise it as a _tour-de-force_ of Sherlock Holmes's skill and passion with the violin. It is a veritable storm of sound that sends the heart soaring to lofty heights and plunging to murky depths, and never once does it degrade itself to the screeches and scrapes of contemplation. This is Sherlock Holmes at his finest.

This _is_ Sherlock Holmes. This is the detective, the deductive reasoner, the "sleuth-hound," the master intellect. This is the artist, the musician, the composer. This is the mind and heart in a rare, unguarded moment of unity.

This is his soul.

At last, the final, lingering notes of the Stradivarius fade away as he is spent, physically and emotionally. The violin is lovingly returned to its case, and the old black clay pipe removed from the mantle, and Holmes finally throws himself down on the settee.

He is tired.

The case taxes his energies, and memories resurface that he would rather keep locked away. The pale, lifeless face of Victor Savage haunts him, as does the heartbreak of Emily Fitzwilliam. They were both so young.

_Not now,_ he tells himself, pushing himself back up to a sitting position and reaching for the day's post. Among the envelopes is a small package from Jabez Wilson—one corner of his mouth pulls back at the memory of the gullible but harmless pawnbroker. The brief note thanks him again for his services and offers the little box in the package as a reward.

He smiles down at the black and white ivory box. No reward was necessary, but it is a kind gesture, no matter how late. He picks up the box, slides the lid back—

_Dear God_…

—and stares at the ragged cut of deep red on his thumb. He slides the lid shut once more, and the spring withdraws into the box, its fatal deed done.

He cannot help a slight shiver. Unless an antidote can be produced quickly, he has four days left to live.

* * *

><p><strong>Latin translation:<strong>

cursum perficio: (lit.) my journey perfected; my journey is finished

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

YIPES! Holmes, you were supposed to be _careful_! …Okay, he's tired, mentally, physically, and emotionally, and we know that even he has his slip-ups. But what a time to slip up!

Anyway, "This is Sherlock Holmes" is definitely inspired by Matthew Stover's novelization for _Star Wars, Episode III: Revenge of the Sith_. If you've read the book, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, don't worry about it. ;D

And more of Lestrade and Gregson! Oh, writing those two never gets old—they're fantastic for that clever banter dialogue writers like myself love so much! And isn't Colin Jeavons!Lestrade talking while his head's in a box just a fun mental image? Gotta feel sorry for the poor guy, what with his "My complete _lack_ of brilliance astounds _myself_ sometimes." *snickers* And the mental image of his "staring down" Gregson is amusing, indeed. Oh, and finally: "Lestrade, are you finally breaking under pressure? Truly?" LOL.

Once again, I enjoyed my own rendition of Culverton Smith (and did anybody recognize the scene?). I also enjoyed writing Moriarty—in fact, I _love_ writing Moriarty. He's so brilliant and chilling and completely _sane_, a true delight to write. So many villains are insane, to some degree—not the Professor. Never the Professor. *happy sigh*

Lastly, do you see any problems with Watson? He still strikes me as being _off_, but I can't put my finger on it! However, I do like how he gets Holmes to go out to Simpson's for dinner. (The day, btw, is Sunday, November 1st—in other words, All Souls Night. Does anyone know if there a particular greeting for this holiday?)

Next up, we enter at last into the events of "The Dying Detective." For Holmes, it's a struggle for survival. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	6. 5: To Be It

**Author's Note:**

At last, the crisis. Oh, and a new blog post up today, this one describing SH22. ;-)

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: (About Watson) yeeeaaah… I'll work on that. 'S so frustrating—Holmes is actually the one of the pair with whom I have less difficulties! And as far as All Souls Day… yeah, if you can find something there, I'd appreciate it—if not, don't sweat it. =) And thank you very much for all the positive stuff in your review—really made my day! (And was one of the things that helped carry me through a tough week.)

James Birdsong: Thank you!

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><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter V==<strong>

**To Be It**

The Colonel was a hunter. He had hunted both man and beast in the wilds of India, Afghanistan, and London, and he had many kills to his name. He enjoyed the hunt, the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction of the snare. He was a man of action.

He was also a man of some prudence, else he would not have attained the position that he had in an empire whose size fairly rivalled that of the British Empire itself. In India, he had been quite content to lie in wait for hours in order to catch a tiger, and his bag remained unparalleled.

Both his need for action and his prudence were telling him now that a certain master pathologist must needs be punished for his disobedience. Corporal punishment was an attractive idea—Culverton Smith would never have endured the harsh discipline that had only in recent years been lawfully abolished—but capital punishment was even more so. The colonel entertained a fantasy of a slow and agonising end for the pathologist, perhaps at the hand of one of his beloved diseases.

Sebastian Moran folded his arms over his broad chest as the messenger departed. "Forgive me, Professor, if I indulge in a brief moment of vindication."

"Certainly, Moran," Moriarty rasped quietly. Moriarty never rasped unless he was angry. "I appear to have made a grave miscalculation on the part of our friend's character; I should never have thought Smith to be capable of recklessness."

"Let me deal with him."

"In three days." Moran frowned at his master, who smiled. It was not a nice smile. "Sherlock Holmes has three days left to live, but he will take Smith down with him if at all possible. If he fails to do so, Smith is yours."

"And if the police arrest him?"

"Then we shall employ a… subtler means… of hastening his end." Moriarty's expression grew contemplative. "I am certain he shall appreciate the irony."

* * *

><p>There was strong light beyond his eyelids.<p>

"Mr. Holmes?"

He was in bed. He had no memory of getting into bed the night before. And why was he so hot?

_Rap, rap, rap!_ "Mr. Holmes?" _Rap, rap, rap!_ "Mr. Holmes!"

His eyes flew open with remembrance.

He choked down a pained cry as the knocks on his door pulsated through his head, the throbbing inducing nausea. He tasted bile, squeezed his eyes shut, pushed it back down his throat with great effort. "Mrs. Hudson." The intended call came out as a mere croak.

But she heard. The landlady opened the door and gasped at the sight of him tangled among the bedclothes. "Mr. Holmes!"

He grimaced as her cry brought a fresh wave of agony crashing over him. "Softly, please, Mrs. Hudson," he managed past an aching throat.

"Oh, it is the influenza, isn't it?" she moaned quietly, stepping into the room. "I feared you'd catch something in Rotherhithe! I shall call in Dr. Watson straight away—or one of his colleagues, if he cannot come himself."

"No!" The sharp retort startled them both. Not to be denied, however, he flung back the bedclothes and turned the full force of his still-formidable gaze upon his landlady. "Mrs. Hudson, allow me to… to deal with this… in my own fashion. It is nothing… serious… merely a fever and… a headache."

Ainstree. He needed to get a message to Ainstree.

"But, Mr. Holmes—"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that will be all," he said as sharply as he could manage. _She mustn't be involved in this any more than is strictly necessary_. She seemed to understand that he would brook no argument, for she merely pressed her lips tightly together and nodded once before leaving. He sank back into the bed, wanting nothing more than to sleep deeply and dreamlessly.

High temperatures and vivid nightmares had stalked him throughout the night before.

A long hand snaked out to the nightstand to grab the watch lying there. He glanced at it: five past one in the afternoon. The full import of that bit of data caught up with his weary brain, and he flew upright in bed. He had been infected for nearly _fourteen hours_.

More than half a day had been wasted already.

His head swam as he pushed himself out of bed, and bile rushed to his mouth as he took one unsteady step forward. Then another. The juices in his stomach protested vehemently. Another… He dropped to the floor and grabbed for the bedpan. After losing whatever was left of his small dinner from yesterday, he spent another five minutes dry-heaving. His abdominal muscles did not seem to want to stop contracting.

But at last, he managed to push himself back up off the floor, and he felt fractionally better. He plunged his hands into the water basin and splashed his burning face liberally with the icy water. He felt terribly chilled afterward, but the sensation was a welcome one, after having been a human furnace for the past several hours. Eventually, he made it to the window of the sitting room and raised the sash with some difficulty.

Thank goodness he could still whistle. "Percy!"

"Yes, sir?" the Irregular shouted back, looking up from the kerb right below.

"Tell Wiggins I need him immediately! Here!" Holmes tossed the boy a tanner. "Bring Wiggins back in less than half an hour, and it'll be a shilling."

The lad's eyes grew as wide around as the coin. "Oy! Yessir!" Percy took off as if Stapleton's hound was at his heels—Holmes chuckled faintly at the sight…

The next thing he knew, he had somehow ended up on the sitting room floor, and Wiggins was anxiously bent over him. "…up. Oh, thank God. Mr. Holmes!"

"Shh," Holmes chided weakly. "Just help me up to the settee, there's a good fellow."

Wiggins mumbled something distinctly Cockney and profane as he lifted the detective up in his own thin, wiry arms; Holmes's mind was too tired to translate. The younger man laid Holmes out on the settee with a gentleness born of being father to one brother and three sisters. Holmes settled gratefully into the cushions and pulled down the afghan draped over the back. "Thank you, m'lad."

"Mrs. Hudson says it's influenza," Wiggins said without preamble. "I rather think it isn't."

"It gives every…. appearance of being… as harmless," Holmes murmured.

"Harml—"

"In _comparison_… my dear Wiggins. What I have contracted is… far more deadly."

Wiggins clasped his hands behind his back. "Infectious?"

"No. It must… must be transferred through a… break in the skin. Dr. Ainstree assured me… on that point. You must give him a message… get through to see him… any way you can. Card's on the… desk."

"Mm." Wiggins snatched up the card, studied it, set it down. "Right, then. And the message is?"

"Three days. He'll know what it… means."

"You have three days left to live?"

"Wiggins…"

"Like that Savage chap? You let that…" Wiggins descended into a string of colourful Cockney with a dash of another dialect Holmes couldn't quite identify. The invectives that he _did_ understand, however, involved Culverton Smith and his ancestry. "…infect you?"

Holmes groaned and turned away. "I know what I am doing."

"You'd better," Wiggins gritted out. "Tell me that you'll involve the Doctor."

Holmes rounded on the boy from his prone position, feeling his face drain of what little colour it possessed. "Are you mad? I'll not risk Watson being hurt by a man such as Smith!"

"When're you going to learn he _wants_ you to risk it?" Wiggins exploded. "When're you going to learn he doesn't care, he'll go to the ends of the earth for you? He's a _soldier_, Mr. Holmes, a soldier _what_ _survived bloody Maiwand!_"

"And who very nearly _didn't_ survive a second Jezail!" Holmes snapped back heatedly. "Wiggins, bear that burden yourself before you judge me for avoiding it." He fell back then, trying desperately to work air into lungs that did not seem to be expanding properly.

Wiggins bit back his lips, and Holmes could almost see the younger man swallow his frustration. When at last Holmes returned to some semblance of regular breathing, Wiggins said, "And the police?"

"Inspector Morton. I was to see… him today…" Holmes pushed bile down again. "Just tell him to come right up."

Wiggins nodded dutifully and moved towards the door, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Don't die, sir," he said bluntly. "We need you." His sapphire eyes conveyed a more personal tone to the statement.

"I'll make every… effort not to," Holmes assured him. The fact that he couldn't get a full sentence out without at least one gasp for breath was counterproductive to his assurance.

Wiggins exhaled noiselessly and said in a quiet Cockney voice, "Roight then, guv." He placed a shabby old bowler hat on his golden head and left.

Holmes took the opportunity to curl into ball and clutch at his abdomen, letting himself moan at the low, dull cramping there. _Wiggins, hurry_.

* * *

><p>He has been dangerously ill or severely wounded several times in his life, but not like this. Never like this. Not even the bullet in his side in '82 produced this much torment, despite the raging fever that followed in the bullet's wake and brought hallucinations of burning alive.<p>

In, out. In, out. Inhale, exhale.

Breathe. Breathe. _Breathe_.

Amazing, what one takes for granted. Amazing, how the simple act of breathing can be rendered so horridly difficult.

It hurts.

Breathing hurts.

It rattles his lungs, echoes in his aching head. A pang shoots through his cramped abdomen with every gasp.

Never before in his life has he wanted to _stop breathing_.

But he has a cunning murderer to take down, and so he throws every last ounce of his formidable willpower into surviving this. He _shall_ survive this tropical disease.

Inspector Morton has been informed as to the particulars; they have a plan of action set for the morrow. Dr. Ainstree needs but one more day to complete his antidote. Mrs. Hudson remains rather less-than-blissfully unaware of the scheme unfolding around her. Watson knows nothing at all, being too occupied with his practise to venture even this short distance from home.

In, out. In, out.

Two days. Two days now he has been reduced to this state.

He is thirsty. He is thirsty, but he has discovered that he can barely swallow what little saliva remains in his mouth, let alone water. His throat is too tight, and swallowing hurts too sharply. Food holds little appeal, thanks to the acrobatics his stomach remains determined to perform. He has reached the point, however, at which he is unable to vomit any more and must dry heave.

He longs desperately for his Stradivarius, but he is too weak even to scrape the bow across the strings. Smoking, of course, is out of the question, and the fifty or so hours he has been without tobacco have been mental torture. He craves the comfort of his pipes and cigarettes, misses the soothing effect they have on him.

When his exhausted brain at last slips into unconsciousness, it is only to meet memories best left untouched. Pneumonia, not an Asiatic disease, had taken the life of the girl he had almost married, but she has risen to the front of his mind ever since the death of Victor Savage.

It seems a lifetime ago since Anne Middleton's death. In some respects, it _was_ a lifetime ago, for he is so very different now from the boy that had begged God to spare Annie's life. Of course, he is still the same man; there is nothing so sordidly dramatic about himself as having been one person in his youth and being another altogether in his adulthood. But in that terrible year of 1877, he was simply so very… _young_. Young and devastated, reeling from the murders of his parents, the destruction of his home, and, several months later, the death of a girl whom some had called his childhood sweetheart.

In this nightmarish period of his life, he met the newly-minted Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade whilst on the trail of his parents' murderer. There is a reason he calls Lestrade the best of professionals: though not as smart as Gregson, the little detective is hardworking, tenacious, dedicated, willing to listen to "fantastic theories" even if unwilling to follow them up, willing to admit his mistakes. And beneath an exterior toughened by a lifetime of hard knocks, a heart beats warm and strong.

He suspects he owes Lestrade his life several times over. He once contracted pneumonia himself, and Lestrade took him in and saw to it that he survived. The professional detective watched out for his amateur colleague with an almost fatherly air, despite the amateur's caustic tongue and secretive personality.

He remembers nearly breaking down when he discovered the Christian name of Lestrade's wife. Annie.

Very few women he has met since 1877 have compared to his mother and to _his_ Anne. Mother remains his idea of perfection in the fairer sex, and Anne is not far behind. Violet Hunter, Irene Norton, and Mary Watson—Mary, especially—must be the most like Cécile Holmes and Anne Middleton. From Miss Hunter, he has the gift of a lock of her elegant chestnut hair; from Mrs. Norton, a photograph. From Mary, however, he has the gift of a friendship deepened into the regard of a brother and sister.

And because of Mary, he has a reason to keep Watson from getting himself killed in these investigations. The Red-headed League was a safe enough case, even a somewhat comical one, and it has been one of the very few cases in which Watson has participated this past year. With a medical practise of modest size and several attempts at parenthood, frequent investigations with the doctor simply can no longer be justified.

The day melts into the night, and the dusk brings Dr. Ainstree at long last with the cure to Smith's poison. Holmes refuses to take the antidote just yet, for he must convince Smith that he is indeed dying. The night is long, and haunted once more by ghosts of the past. And when Mrs. Hudson insists that a doctor be called in—she does not know that Ainstree himself is such—Holmes gives in and asks for Watson. It's selfish of him, he knows, but never before has he spent such long, feverish days alone. He aches to see his dearest friend again.

* * *

><p>The scholar spares his pocket-watch a brief glance as he works with his precious chemicals. He smiles. The end is drawing very near.<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes cursed the illness for robbing his senses of their acuity and his brain of its lucidity. He did not hear the familiar tread upon the staircase, and the images of his fevered mind overlapped with reality… until the door opened, and Watson entered.<p>

"Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days." He detested the frailty of his own voice.

Watson's hazel eyes radiated heartache. "My dear fellow!"

"Stand back! Stand right back!" His weary mind no longer recalled that the disease was non-infectious, and he feared Watson catching it. "If you approach me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house."

"But why?"

"Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?" He sank back in the bedclothes, exhausted by the display of imperiousness. The vague thought drifted through his mind that he was acting childishly.

"I only wished to help," Watson soothed, stepping into the room but taking care not to approach the bed itself.

"Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told." It was too much—too much energy expended too quickly, not enough air entering in his lungs. They didn't seem to be expanding, and he panicked for a very brief moment. He almost drowned once, in the Days Before Watson, and he remembered that experience vividly. In the icy embrace of the Thames in January, he had been unable to draw breath, and his lungs had burned for release. He relived that moment now, and only as from a distance did he hear Watson acquiesce.

"Certainly, Holmes."

It was still so very hard to draw breath. "You… are… not… angry?"

Watson shook his head, his countenance afraid and sympathetic at once.

"It's for… your own sake… Watson."

"For my sake?"

"I know what… is the matter… with me." He knew all too well. "It is a coolie… disease… from Sumatra—a thing… the Dutch know… more about… than we, though they… have made little of it… up to date. One thing only… is certain. It is… _infallibly_… deadly, and… it is horribly… contagious." Later, he would not understand how his memory could have failed him, even considering the fever; for now, he waved his friend away with spasming hands. How he wished his body was fully under his own control once more! "Contagious by… touch, Watson—that's it… by touch. Keep your distance and… all is well."

The hazel eyes lit with a determined fire. "Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me for an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so dear a friend?" Watson stepped nearer the bed.

Holmes felt his eyes burn with their own resolution. "If you will stand there, I will talk. If you do not, you must leave the room."

Watson drew himself up until he was the soldier again, the assistant surgeon serving under the unforgiving glare of the Afghan sun. "Holmes, you are not yourself." That much, they could agree on. "A sick man is but a child, and so I will treat you." And there they encountered a serious problem, to Holmes's mind, at least. "Whether you like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them."

Fool doctor! Couldn't he understand that Holmes could not bear it if Watson passed under the Valley of the Shadow _again_? Through Holmes himself? "If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not," he said slowly, emphasizing every word, "let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence." He prayed that Watson would forgive him later.

The older man stepped back as if he'd been slapped in the face. Holmes could not have felt more awful if he had done so. "Then you have none in me?" Watson said quietly.

_All the confidence in the world,_ Holmes's mind cried. "In your friendship, certainly," his mouth said instead. "But facts are facts, Watson, and, after all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications." University of London and Netley were hardly mediocre, and he knew it. "It is painful to have to say these things, but you leave me no choice."

It was a mere darkening of the eyes, but Holmes saw his barb go very deep. These were appalling, unforgivable things coming from his mouth, and seldom indeed had he felt more ashamed of himself.

"Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes," Watson said slowly and softly. "It shows me very clearly the state of your own nerves. But if you have no confidence in me, I would not intrude my services." Bless the man, Holmes knew he didn't deserve such a friend—could not deserve such a friend in a thousand years. "Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But someone you must have—" his voice hardened into that of Major Watson, late of Her Majesty's Indian Army—"and that is final. If you think that I am going stand here and watch you die without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else to help you, then you have mistaken your man."

No, he had not. Never in a thousand years. Never in a million. He knew his Boswell.

"You mean well, Watson," he groaned, and his breath hitched at the same time like a sob. "Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance?" He found that speaking slowly improved his respiration and speech. "What do you know, pray, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the Black Formosa Corruption?"

Watson drew in a breath and expelled it before answering. "I have never heard of either."

The next two hours, after Holmes persuaded Watson to wait, were a torment. Holmes grew weaker and weaker, and the pain increased, and he would not take Ainstree's cure while Watson remained in the house. But his own agony was suddenly forgotten when Watson picked up Smith's deadly box, and, for the first and only time in his life, Sherlock Holmes screamed in terror.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

This last scene was both the easiest and the hardest. It was easy because I "knew" what Holmes was thinking and feeling, and hard because it's a recasting of DYIN—and I wanted to somehow get in that original material (Holmes's POV) without boring my readers with an already-trodden path. Hope it worked.

(Oh, and it doesn't surprise me a bit that Holmes almost drowned once, 'specially in his early 20s.)

I enjoyed the brief scene at the beginning between Moran and Moriarty. I enjoyed describing Moran. Bad guys are fun to write—if you write them as real people. If you write them as cartoon characters, well… hmm. ^_^

And, okay, now, I'm hoping nobody's going to want to kill me for having given Sherlock a young love. Annie Middleton has actually been a part of my personal canon for a long time now—I simply haven't had either the chance or the guts to use her. But I'll say one thing right now, and this is pretty bold for me in an A/N: I think that the whole Holmes-is-asexual thing is just all rot. Seriously. I think that the idea that he can't be in a romantic relationship (or especially, can't be in a _straight_ romantic relationship) is wrong and non-canonical. But that's an argument I'll save for a blog post sometime (just remind me to do it). Annie is an established part of Sherlock's past in this universe. If you've read AMM, whether the online or the ebook version, you should be able to see how a young Sherlock could indeed have a romantic relationship with a girl…

And now I'm going to go have breakfast. And coffee. Next up, the climax of DYIN, and the aftermath! Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	7. 6: The Snare

**Author's Note:**

Please pardon the lateness of the update! Getting close to the end—not of the novel itself, but of how much of it I'm posting online. I'm afraid I shan't be giving away the entire thing for free~! ;D

This is one of my favorite chapters. And, yeah, Holmes kind of gets tortured a lot in this first book, I'm afraid. However, if you know my writings, you know the type of ending I prefer no matter what. =)

Btw, thanks to feedback from a couple of reviewers (they know who they are!) and my beta, **I've rewritten and re-uploaded the prologue.** Please check it out—it's longer and much more detailed this time!

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: Yeees, Mrs. Hudson… I'll see what I can do about that. *sighs* My problem with her is that I need to flesh her out more fully in my head and try to detach my version of her from the Granada version… Eh, the more trouble Holmes is in, the easier it is for me to write Watson. =) Thank you very much! (Oh, and please check out the prologue rewrite, do! My beta said it was much, much better—I really want to know if you agree!)

James Birdsong: Thank you!

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter VI==<strong>

**The Snare**

"Do you know what is the matter with you?"

"The same."

"Ah! You recognise the symptoms?"

"Only too well."

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised, Holmes," Culverton Smith said affably. "I shouldn't be surprised if it were the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead man on the fourth day—a strong, hearty young fellow. It was certainly, as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted an out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London—a disease, too, of which I had made such a very special study. Singular coincidence, Holmes. Very clever of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect."

Sherlock Holmes had wished only recently for the chance to shake Smith by the hand for his genius. Now he was forced to listen to Smith's playful gloating over a supposed dying man. "I knew that you did it," he said quietly.

"Indeed?" Smith gave a rich chuckle. "And what proof have you of this, hmm?" He patted Holmes's shoulder genially—the circumstances were so very far removed from their encounter in a Rotherhithe opium den. "But what do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of game is that—"

"_Water_," Holmes rasped. Half of the antidote, he had taken while Watson left to fetch Smith; the other half resided, colourlessly, in the glass of water on the nightstand. His parched throat yearned for relief, and his mind knew that he must take the other half soon.

"What?"

Holmes managed to raise his voice. "Give me the water!"

Smith picked up the glass, extended it towards Holmes, then drew it back sharply. Holmes did not have to pretend his desperation as he weakly lifted up a hand for the glass, murmuring, "Please." Smith's black eyes lit with vicious satisfaction, and he leaned in close, the water still just out of Holmes's reach.

"I want you to _know_, Holmes," he whispered maliciously. "It would never do to have the Great Detective die in ignorance of the cause of his own death." He smiled, a sick smile, and brushed the hair back from Holmes's sweaty forehead in a facsimile of tenderness. Holmes shuddered beneath the touch, not yet in full control of his body once again. The sick smile widened. "Here." He held out the glass for Holmes, who latched onto it and drank greedily. Swallowing was agony, but the coolness was a blessing—and the medicine it contained, crucial.

"There you are." Smith took the empty glass back and returned it to the nightstand. "Now, listen carefully, Holmes—you're good at doing that, aren't you?"

Holmes groaned—again, not an act. The antidote needed some little time to work its healing upon his ravaged body. "Do what you can for me," he whispered. "Let bygones be bygones. I'll put the words out of my head—I swear I will. Only cure me, and I'll forget it." Then he wondered if he'd made a misstep, for anyone who truly knew him knew that Sherlock Holmes would indeed die before making such a bargain.

Fortunately, Culverton Smith knew him by reputation only. "Forget what?"

"Well, about Victor Savage's death. You as good as admitted just now that you had done it. I'll forget it."

"You can forget it or remember it, just as you like," Smith said obligingly. "Somehow, I… don't quite see you in the witness-box." That sick smile again. "Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died. It's not him we are talking about—it's you."

"Yes, yes," Holmes said wearily.

"The fellow who came for me—I've forgotten his name—said that you contracted it down in the East End among the sailors." Good old Watson—he'd obeyed Holmes's order to set Smith's box down, and had waited the full two hours until it was time to seek out Culverton Smith and induce him to come to Baker Street.

"I could only account for it so."

"Hum, I… think not," Smith said easily. "Cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you could have gotten this thing?"

"I can't think," Holmes moaned. "My mind is gone." It was very nearly true—his normal precision and clarity of thought were beyond his reach at present. "For heaven's sake, help me!"

"Yes, I will help you. I'll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. As I said, it would be a shame for you to die, not knowing the cause of your own death."

A sharp pang shot through his stomach—the parting pains of the disease, he hoped—and he curled in on himself, clutching at his abdomen and choking down a cry of agony. "Give me… something… to ease my pain," he gritted out raggedly between spasms.

"Painful, is it?" Smith mused, smiling almost benignly. Holmes nearly turned away in disgust. "Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy."

"Yes, yes," Holmes gasped, "it is cramp. Oh, God!" _Let the antidote finish its work quickly, _he prayed.

"Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow," Smith said in a satisfied tone. "Listen now! Can you remember any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms began?"

How unnecessary this cross-examination was—if Holmes managed to live to a hundred, he was certain he could not forget his poisoning. "No, no, nothing." His fingertips dug into his side, seeking to massage the cramps away.

"Think again," Smith ordered sternly.

"I'm too ill to think," Holmes whispered, hissing in pain.

"Well, then, I'll help you. Did anything come by post?"

"By post?"

"A box by chance?"

Holmes's only reply was a long, choking groan that was only half put-on.

"Listen, Holmes!" Smith seized the detective by the shoulders and shook him, sending further spasms of fire through his body. Holmes gave a barely audible whimper. "You must hear me. You shall hear me. Do you remember a box—an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it—do you remember?"

"Yes, yes, I opened it," Holmes blurted out. "There was a sharp spring inside. Some joke—"

"It was no joke," Smith said in that stern tone, "as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you had left me alone, I would not have hurt you. _Remember, remember, the Fifth of November_. Well, _you_ shan't remember it, but _I_ shall."

_The boy_ you _murdered asked me to cross your path_, Holmes wanted to retort. "I remember," he gasped instead. "The spring! It drew blood. This box—this on the table."

"The very one, by George!" Smith smiled grimly. "It may as well leave the room in my pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share it. You are very near your end, my dear Holmes." No man had the right to call him that but John Watson—it sounded profane coming from this monster's lips. Smith drew up the room's one chair and settled into it. "And I shall watch you die."

"The gas," Holmes whispered. The near-inaudibility of his voice belied the abrupt surge of strength through his body, the cramps dispelling slowly but surely.

"What is that?"

"_Turn up the gas_." He felt as if a river coursed through him, washing away all impurities.

"Ah, the shadows begin to fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better." Smith crossed the room and adjusted the light. "Is there any other little service that I can do you, my friend?"

Holmes pushed himself up in bed as the other man's back was yet turned. "A match and a cigarette?" was the cavalier request, in his own true voice. Weakened, but no longer gasping and ragged.

Smith whirled around, staring incredulously at the detective. Nodding once, Holmes smiled mirthlessly and reached for his cigarette case and matches. "The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it," he continued. Let Smith think that it had all indeed been an act—so much the better for Holmes's reputation. "For three days, I have managed neither food nor drink until you were good enough to give me that glass of water. But it is the lack of tobacco which I find most irksome." He lit a cigarette and placed it between his lips with a sigh of pleasure—and relief. "That is very much better."

Smith found his voice at last. "And what, pray, is the meaning of this?"

Holmes gave him a hard look. "I am certain you can deduce that for yourself."

Footsteps sounded on the landing beyond, and the door opened, revealing Inspector Harold Morton. Smith paled, and Holmes waved the newcomer in. "Ah, Inspector! All is in order, and this is your man."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." Three constables came up to flank the official detective. "I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage," Morton announced.

He got no further than that, however, for Smith drew himself up with wounded dignity and thundered, "Preposterous! I—"

"It's no good, Smith," Holmes said quietly. "They can still arrest you for the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes. Thank you, by the way, for turning up the gas and signalling the Inspector. Morton, the prisoner has a small box in the right-hand pocket of his coat which must be removed, and I would handle it gingerly if I were you."

Smith backed away from the advancing police, his hand straying to the noted pocket. A decisive click kept it from entering. "I wouldn't do that, Smith," Holmes said in a low tone, his revolver drawn from its place beneath his pillow and cocked.

Morton took the opportunity to rush at the murderer and attempt to handcuff him. The struggle was brief; the scholarly Smith was no match for the powerfully-built Morton. "You'll only get yourself hurt," the inspector grunted. "Stand still, will you?" The cuffs clicked into place.

"A nice trap!" Smith snarled. "It will bring you to the dock, Holmes, not me. His friend asked me to come here to cure him," he continued, to the police. "I was sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I have said anything which Holmes may invent to corroborate his insane suspicions. You can like lie as you like, Holmes. My word is always as good as yours."

"Good heavens!" Holmes could have kicked himself to Charing Cross Station as he watched Watson emerge from his hiding place in the shadows between the drapes and the bureau. "I had totally forgotten him! My dear Watson—"

"No, don't speak just yet, Holmes," Watson warned, a thundercloud settling over his countenance. The sinking feeling in the pit of Holmes's stomach had nothing to do with the illness—Watson was clearly reining in his temper. "Not just yet." He looked to the inspector and gave a sharp nod. "Morton."

A cruel fire kindled in Smith's black eyes. "Someday you'll go too far in using your friends, Holmes," he sneered, "and then who will be there to defend you?"

"Quiet, you," Morton growled. "Men, let's get this wretch to the Yard."

A pregnant silence settled in the bedroom in the wake of police and prisoner. Just when Holmes thought he could bear the tension no longer, Watson spoke again, quietly. "It was all a deception."

The detective remained silent.

"Holmes, I would rather have known."

Sherlock Holmes justified his next words with the logic that Watson did not strictly need to know, and that he didn't want Watson fussing over his health. "My dear fellow, I owe you a thousand apologies," he said as he entered the sitting room to provide himself with some sustenance before attending to his toilet. "But you do realise that among your many talents dissimulation finds no place, and that if you had shared my secret, you would never have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing his vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that he would come to look upon his handiwork."

"And your appearance, Holmes?" Not quite forgiving, but at least Watson was willing to _listen_. Always a good sign.

"Three days of absolute fast does not improve one's beauty, Watson," Holmes said dryly as he poured himself a glass of claret. "For the rest, there is nothing which a sponge may not cure." Interesting, that lies grew easier to tell once they were begun. "With vaseline upon the forehead, belladonna in the eyes, rouge over the cheekbones, and crust of beeswax round the lips, a very satisfying effect can be produced." That much was true—he'd tested it himself, more than once. "Malingering is a subject upon which I have sometimes thought of writing a monograph. A little occasional talk about half-crowns, oysters, or any other extraneous subjects produces a pleasing effect of delirium." Half-crowns and oysters were all that he could recall; the rest of his ramblings were lost to the haze of fever.

"But why would you not let me near you, since there was, in truth, no infection?" The infinitesimally small trace of hurt in Watson's tone made Holmes realise just how much damage he had truly done. How could he have so swiftly forgotten his vigil over Watson in '88, the Jezail to the thigh and the high fever that followed? The past few hours must have been a true hell for his poor friend.

"Can you ask, my dear Watson?" Holmes murmured, looking down at the floor. "Do you imagine that I have no respect for your medical talents? Could I fancy that your astute judgment would pass a dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse or temperature?" And still he lied. God forgive him.

* * *

><p>It was late when at last Mary heard the door open and shut in the hall beyond. "John!" She flew up from the rocking chair and threw her arms around him.<p>

"Mary," he breathed, holding her close and burying his face in her shoulder. She noted the haggard lines of his face before he did so. "Oh, Mary."

"Mr. Holmes—is he still alive? Oh, John, what has happened?" John looked up then, and she shivered at the pain in the hazel eyes she loved so much.

"He is well," he whispered hoarsely.

"What happened?" she said softly, peeling his coat off of him.

"It was a trap," he said slowly, as if in shock. "A trap for his suspect. The man tried to poison him—Holmes made him believe he had."

"And made Mrs. Hudson believe he had," Mary continued as she hung up his hat and coat, casting her mind back to the landlady's afternoon appearance, "and made… oh, _John_."

He shut his eyes in confirmation of her unspoken conclusion.

"Let's get you upstairs," she murmured, taking his arm and pulling him gently to the staircase. Not a word was exchanged between them until Mary had him sitting on the bed sans his suit coat, his dressing gown draped over his broad shoulders. She rested her chin on his good shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. "Now, what happened?"

He told her. He told her the entire melodramatic affair, and his voice broke several times in describing the allegedly ill Sherlock Holmes. Her chest ached with each crack in his normally strong baritone, and she wondered how Sherlock could be so cruel, even unintentionally. She could not reconcile the idea with the man who loved her husband like a brother and loved even her like a sister.

Then an anomaly struck her. "He wouldn't let you near for fear that you'd uncover his deception," she said slowly.

"Yes…" He shifted in her embrace. "Mary, what is it?"

"John… he let Culverton Smith near." She frowned, not liking where her train of thought was taking her. "The man who is the specialist in these tropical diseases—_he let him near_."

He stiffened beneath her touch as he reached the conclusion she had. "Good heavens."

"John… are you absolutely _sure_ it was an _act_?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes struggled to cleanse himself of all emotion as he neared his destination. It was no easy thing, even for his carefully cultivated powers of detachment, to pay a visit to the man who had so nearly succeeded in murdering him and had gloried in it. And had indirectly caused a rift between two dear friends—Watson had not returned to Baker Street since that dreadful evening, and Holmes had not seen him the one time he'd visited Paddington Street. Mary had been home, however, and her care in choosing her words had told him that a definite schism existed between the two men closest to her.<p>

The holding cell of Culverton Smith was typical of such rooms and utterly unremarkable. Culverton Smith himself was a study in emotions as the guard let Holmes into the room—incredulity, anger, and hatred passed swiftly over his tanned face before it settled into the cold hauteur Holmes had marked out for him at first sight. "My dear Holmes," he said coolly. "Come to gloat, have you?"

Had Smith been standing, Holmes would have had half a foot over him; since Smith was sitting on his cot, the detective towered over the pathologist. "I shall not debase myself by mimicking a multiple murderer," Holmes said icily.

"_Multiple_ murder?" Smith snorted. "How on earth did you conceive _that_ notion?"

"As you said before, cause and effect." The detective's grey eyes hardened to twin points of steel. "You asked me, two days ago, who asked me to cross your path. Your nephew did. He suspected you of infecting poor souls in the East End with your Asiatic diseases."

Smith's black eyes widened briefly before he schooled his face into impassivity. "That one had a wild imagination."

Holmes chuckled mirthlessly; the sound would have sent chills down Watson's spine had he been there to hear it. "My dear sir, seldom have I met a young man so possessed of good sense. I myself have seen you move amongst the opium dens, and I have beheld the fruits of your labour." He leant in. "Your victims number in the dozens, Smith, if not more. You were experimenting."

Smith smiled complacently—Holmes had to admire his audacity. "You can prove nothing. That much is obvious if you needed to feign illness in order to extract a confession from me."

"You were not working for your own benefit," Holmes continued, disregarding the other's smugness. "You had an employer. He is a wealthy man, a man who could arrange for samples of your precious diseases to be shipped in all the way from Southeast Asia. A man of influence and power. He hired you to create a swift, incurable disease."

As he spoke, he had watched Smith's tanned features pale by degrees. "You know nothing," he whispered harshly.

"On the contrary, Smith," Holmes said softly but dangerously, "I know nearly _everything_. Nearly everything there is to know about this affair." Between his own deductions and the telegrams of a certain informant, he could piece the puzzle together only too easily. "Your employer… was none other than Professor. James. Moriarty."

The flash of fear through the man's black eyes confirmed it. "You are mad," he bit out instead.

Holmes straightened to his full height. "Very well. You may deny all, if you wish, but know that I shall uncover the complete truth. This is the beginning of Moriarty's end, Smith, and it began with you." He spun on his heel and rapped on the door to alert the guard.

"I might not have succeeded in stopping your meddling, Holmes," Smith snarled abruptly, "but he won't fail to do so. Interfere, and he'll hunt you down to the ends of the earth to finish you."

The door swung open, and Holmes set one foot out into the hall beyond before glancing back over his shoulder. "My dear Smith, did it ever occur to you that, perhaps, he would do the same to you?" He left before Smith could reply.

He had already warned the Yarders against letting anything but food and drink be passed to Culverton Smith, and, even then, the sustenance must be checked for poison. Despite those precautions, he did not believe Smith would live even to see the day of his trial.

The very next day, his belief was vindicated. Culverton Smith had died during the night of aconite poisoning.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I would like to note that writing out Holmes's condition—namely, the pain he was in—was drawn from real-life experience. If it seems very real to you, that's because it _is_. I loved writing that long first scene. Smith was so deliciously evil, and poor Sherlock was so, well, heartrending. Oh, and something that I _do_ need to figure out is how to make it clearer that Holmes was infected on Guy Fawkes' Night (check the blog for a post explaining my deductions on that: "Remember, Remember the Fifth of November").

Plus, Granada fans will doubtless recognize Watson hiding somewhere _else_ besides behind Holmes's bed. Behind the bed, Sir Arthur? Yeah, _right_. There wouldn't be any bloody _room_ for Watson back there! *sighs* When Canon fails to be realistically accurate, I'm afraid the avid novelist must depart from Canon, if only for a moment.

Which brings me to the whole point of Holmes having actually been ill in DYIN. It was something that **KCS** and **Protector of the Grey Fortress** pointed out in their epic collab _Vows Made in Storms_ (which also makes Holmes out to have been ill in DYIN). In _this_ story, Mary is the one to notice it: "The man who is the specialist in these tropical diseases—_he let him near_." Ostensibly, Holmes won't allow Watson near for fear of the good doctor uncovering his deception, but he allows Smith, the expert in this particular field (and Watson is _not_), to actually _touch_ him? (Watson says in DYIN that there was a sound like Smith shaking Holmes.) I'm sorry, that's just even harder to swallow than hiding poor Watson behind the bed.

AMM readers have long since been familiar with the fact that I treat Holmes as having actually been ill in DYIN. Now they know _why_. ^_-

Oh, and for the record, I love Mary. The poor woman gets neither enough canonical screen-time nor enough credit from fans. She's often treated downright rudely and unfairly. Thank goodness that KCS, PGF, and Aragonite give her plenty of love!

Last but not least, using something tinged with aconite is one of the easiest ways to poison a person—it's fast once it enters the bloodstream, and you apparently need only a trace. It should surprise no one, not even Scotland Yard, that Moriarty was able to dispose of Smith so efficiently (and, yes, this is the irony that Moriarty spoke of in the previous chapter).

Next up, Watson and Wiggins and Porlock and Mycroft and… we get closer to circling back to the events of the prologue. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	8. 7: Following a Thread

**Author's Note:**

Originally, I was going to upload only up to Chapter 8… I might go to Chapter 10, though… I'm not sure.

Chapters 1-6 and the prologue have been written for a couple of months now—from this chapter on, the story is quite recent. And I'm more than a little nervous about it, so… If anything strikes you as wrong, _please be kind_. I can't begin to tell you how much I want somebody to read these chapters and yet how _nervous_ I am about it. *trembles in seat*

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: Thanks so much! Very glad to hear you like the rewrite! Starting Holmes's direct, parenthetical thoughts was difficult, but, once I gathered momentum, it was heartrendingly easy… And writing his self-denial really did break my heart. Anyway… so very happy about your reaction to the opening scene! That was one of my favorite scenes to write, and it's so good to know that I got the reaction I was aiming for. And glad you enjoy Mary—I enjoy writing her! She's such a sweetheart!

bemj11: Thank you very much! *beams* I can count Chapter 6 as a definite success, then!

Forever Day: Thank you very much! (Yes, Watson's feelings will be explored further, although he's, surprisingly, turned out to be not as frequently recurring a character as I'd thought he'd be. Lestrade and Wiggins are demanding to take more of the stage, and, man, when those two gang up on me…) I… am not sure what to say regarding Moran and his conversations with Moriarty, other than that… it's exactly the way I want it. I certainly would never have thought Moran to be stereotypical in any way other than that I'm writing him as I've understood his character from what we're told in the Canon: upper class, honorable (to a degree), commanding officer/warrior, hunter. *shrugs* Ahhh, yes, the plethora of Yarders. Terribly sorry about that (and I did wonder if it would confuse anybody), but I can't reduce that number. Everybody that was there in that first scene _needed_ to be there: all were involved rather heavily with Holmes and, to some degree, with Moriarty. Lastly, I'm well aware that I have a large cast (there will be a _dramatis personae_ in the book version to help readers), but every character either serves a function or is introduced in this first book to serve a function later in the series.

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter VII==<strong>

**Following a Thread**

He studied the brass plate beneath the red lamp: _John H. Watson, M.D_. Reached for the doorknocker, stopped, swallowed. Grabbed the knocker and rapped out his special beat. Stepped back and waited.

"_Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective."_

"_I feared as much! I really cannot congratulate you."_

He had never again wounded Watson so deeply… until now.

"_You are the _best_ friend that I have ever had, and I count myself blessed to know you. I could no more walk away willingly from our friendship than you could."_

He had never actually apologised for what he'd said—Watson had, uncharacteristically, commandeered the conversation, and the opportunity to say "I'm sorry" had been lost. Sherlock Holmes had apologised but few times in his lifetime. That… was not right.

"_I refuse to give up our friendship."_

He wondered if Watson would still hold to that resolution. He prayed fervently that the doctor would.

The door opened, revealing—miracle of miracles—Mary Jane. "I must speak with Dr. Watson, Mary Jane," Holmes said straightaway. "Is he home?"

"Yessir," said the girl, allowing him in while staring up at him with those wide green eyes. She seemed to be in perpetual awe of the man others called "the Great Detective"—Holmes found it slightly irritating after nearly two years. "I'll go fetch him."

"Thank you," Holmes deadpanned as she hurried away. Once again, the Watson's housemaid had forgotten to take his hat and coat; he shook his head and hung them up himself. He had once wondered what had possessed the sensible John and Mary Watson to take on such a careless and absentminded maid, and then decided that compassion must have factored largely into the decision. Only someone kind-hearted enough or desperate enough would hire such a girl, and, though the Watsons were far from rich, they were certainly not desperate.

At any other time, Holmes would have smoked a soothing pipe, but he was far too agitated to attempt to settle down. He paced the sitting room instead: five strides from the settee to the window, five strides back, four from the settee to the door, eight from the door to the opposite wall…

He didn't see Watson until the man was leaning on the doorjamb, his arms folded, his expression blank. "Watson!"

"Good morning, Holmes," Watson said evenly. He looked as tired as Holmes felt: there were lines in his face and rings under his eyes.

Holmes resisted the urge to rush over and lay a hand on Watson's good shoulder. "My dear fellow, you're working yourself too hard," he said feelingly.

Something indefinable sparked in the hazel eyes. "I am well, Holmes." A beat. "What is it you need?"

This wasn't his Watson. This was a quiet, impassive stranger. Holmes needed only one hand to count how many instances Watson had appeared thus to him. This was not the warm, spirited man he considered himself honoured to call "friend."

"Your forgiveness," Holmes said at last, _sotto voce_. "Heaven knows I do not deserve it after the shameful way in which I have treated you, my dear Watson, but I ask for it nonetheless." A hairline fracture appeared in Watson's otherwise emotionless countenance. "Allowing you to believe such a lie was… unconscionable. I shall not attempt to excuse myself. No matter my reasoning, it was a contemptible act towards such a dear friend. Will you… will you forgive me?"

The hardness eased out of Watson's face, and then he merely looked tired… and a bit old. A small tombstone in a church graveyard must have contributed to that look. Holmes hated it; it wasn't right for his Watson—for _either_ of his Watsons. Rarely indeed had he ever seen a couple so suited for parenthood as John and Mary were—why must their every attempt at bearing children be thwarted?

"Holmes, I've already forgiven you," John sighed.

Holmes nearly stared. "You—"

The other held up a hand. "That isn't to say that all is well between us, but I forgive you. I just… do not know if I can trust you."

Holmes stood ramrod-straight, knowing that he deserved far worse than broken trust and yet mourning it. "I cannot blame you."

Watson's eyes slid shut, and he shook his head. "Holmes, you amaze me. On occasion, you are possessed of the most remarkable empathy, and then, without warning, you can turn into the most inconsiderate creature alive. I can never predict when you shall be one or the other."

"Even I cannot always predict myself," Holmes ventured, his gaze seeking out his friend's.

Watson looked up with a noise between a grunt of irritation and a groan. "You truly are incorrigible, Holmes, do you know that?"

Holmes carefully schooled his face to keep from appearing eagerly hopeful. "I've heard it said many times. Half from you, in fact."

"And the other half?"

One corner of Holmes's mouth pulled back. "From Mycroft."

Watson let out a little laugh in spite of himself. "Oh, Holmes, what am I to _do_ with you? By rights, I should be utterly _furious_… ha! I should be chasing you around London with the Irregulars—" Holmes barked a short laugh at the embarrassing memory—"and yet I find that not only am I smiling at your incorrigibility, but I'm also dreadfully concerned about you." His face took on that earnest doctor's expression. "How has your recovery progressed? Are you nearly up to your usual strength? It's true that I really don't know how these exotic diseases work—I wasn't well enough in India to study them properly."

"I'm fine, old fellow, truly," Holmes assured him, feeling his heart leap for joy. "A bit weak and the worse for wear, perhaps, but Dr. Ainstree's cure has worked marvellously."

"Ah, so it was Ainstree who helped you."

Holmes nodded, feeling a shadow settle over his features. "I met him at the deathbed of young Savage."

"I see. I recall deducing that there'd been a death during your investigation." Watson's hazel eyes roamed over Holmes's face. "My dear fellow, whatever is the matter?"

Holmes turned away. "My client died, Watson—is that not enough?"

"I know that you hate failure," Watson said slowly, "and even more that you hate losing clients, but…"

"If I had perhaps been swifter or had had Savage guarded," Holmes practically spat in self-disgust, "he might yet be alive. The boy was engaged, Watson."

He heard the air rush out of Watson's lungs. "I didn't know."

Holmes sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. "Of course, you did not. I did not tell you, and who else would? I promised Savage that I would inform his fiancée of his death… Watson, I wish never to do that again for as long as I live." _I have seen and experienced enough heartbreak in my life—I have no desire to be the herald of it_.

"My dear Holmes," Watson murmured, laying a warm, strong hand upon Holmes's thin shoulder.

_Ever the healer_. Holmes quirked a small, sad smile and patted the hand. "Well, it is nearly time to open your surgery, Doctor, so I shall leave you to it."

Watson nodded, his thick brows knitting together as he watched Holmes don his coat and hat. "Take care of yourself, old man."

Holmes grabbed his walking stick, raised it to his forehead in salute, and reached for the doorknob. "Always, Watson." He hailed a hansom and climbed in, turned back toward the house, and raised one hand in farewell.

Watson stood in the open doorway, both hands in his pockets, his lined face troubled. A drizzle began to descend, Watson retreated inside and shut the door, and Holmes's cab set off.

* * *

><p>PORLOCK<p>

REQUIRE CONFIRMATION FINAL STOP

_VERNET_

MR VERNET

AM SEARCHING STOP NOT INVOLVED IN THE AFFAIR STOP IS A BIT DIFFICULT FINAL STOP

_PORLOCK_

PORLOCK

UNDERSTOOD BUT TIME IS SHORT STOP WE MAY HAVE A CRISIS ON OUR HANDS STOP MY LADS AND I CAN DO NO MORE STOP ALL UP TO YOU NOW FINAL STOP

_VERNET_

MR VERNET

VERY WELL STOP I SHANT FAIL STOP SHOULD HAVE SOMETHING BY WEEKEND FINAL STOP

_PORLOCK_

Wiggins rummaged through the telegrams, scanning briefly over each, and chewed at the inside of his cheek. "You're trusting this Porlock chap pretty far."

Mr. Holmes was perched on the arm of his chair. "What else am I to do, Wig?" he said wearily. "His conjectures concerning Moriarty's goals were correct—Culverton Smith's reactions confirmed it."

Wiggins turned sharply to him. "Cor, you don't look good, sir. That dark-ringed-eye look went out with the last epidemic, you know."

"You may not have noticed, Wiggins, but you hardly look any better. How much sleep have you been getting lately?"

"How much sleep have _you_ been getting lately?"

"I can function quite well on minimal rest, thank you."

"In full health, yes. After that coalie—"

"_Coolie_."

"After that _coolie_ disease? Debatable."

Holmes pressed his lips together briefly. "Wiggins, you—" Wiggins watched as his mentor almost visibly reined in his irritation; the man was most definitely worn out. Sherlock Holmes's infamous self-control very rarely allowed a display of temper. Anger was useful at times—temper, never so.

"All right, all right, I apologise," Wiggins sighed. "Sir, I'm simply… I'm worried. You gave us all a proper scare, sir, and Dr. Ainstree did tell me that your fever _could_ return if you're not careful of your health."

Holmes shook his head. "I haven't time to rest properly, my dear boy—the Professor shan't give me that time. Every hour, every minute, is precious." He slid from the arm of the chair to the seat cushion and propped his chin with his fist. "You have nothing new from your contacts."

Wiggins rearranged the telegrams into their proper order and shook his head. "'Fraid so." That failure to collect pertinent information left a sour taste in his mouth, however blameless he was for it. He hated investigating Moriarty cases—the mathematician was slyer than a ten-year-old pickpocket and slipperier than the East End docks. Of course, it was the reason the man had never been behind bars, defying Sherlock Holmes's best efforts to trace crimes solidly back to him. Professor Moriarty was a man with as great a brain as Wiggins's employer, and Wiggins well knew that Holmes could be a criminal on par with Moriarty himself if Holmes so chose.

Holmes took out his black clay pipe, a sign that the man was ready to allow himself to relax a bit. "Very well, then. Why don't you go home and get some rest yourself, my boy? I shall call you if you're needed."

Wiggins stood and stifled a yawn. "If you're sure…"

"I am sure. Go home, Wiggins."

"Right. Afternoon, then, sir." Another yawn escaped the younger man's defences this time. "I'll call round tomorrow."

"Good afternoon to you, my lad."

Wiggins was downstairs and bidding Mrs. Hudson farewell when violin music wafted down from the sitting room. It was a low, sad tune, penetrated by a longing for something… or mourning for something lost. It lingered in his mind as he turned his footsteps homeward in London's pale sunlight.

* * *

><p>The watery daylight has given way to night-time fog rolling up from the Thames, cloaking the city in a damp chill. This is the weather of assaults and murders. A man can slip from one point to another, virtually invisible to passers-by in the midst of a London Particular.<p>

It is perfect for the work Sherlock Holmes has intended.

"_Sherlock, do sit down, there's a good fellow? Now, the Home Office has decided to put an inspector on the trail of Professor Moriarty."_

_Sherlock snorted incredulously. "Four years after I bring him to the attention of…" Then he saw the look in his brother's eyes. "Oh, no. Mycroft…"_

"_He is of a very old family, Sherlock, and he has friends and connexions quite highly placed."_

Fred Porlock has discovered the location of the warehouse in which the smugglers store their contraband, and Holmes has discovered that one of the entrances is unguarded. The poor fool responsible will rue that mistake. It is a small, unassuming door opening out to a narrow alley, but it is all Holmes needs.

_Sherlock felt ill. "How long has the Home Office known?" Mycroft's watery grey eyes slipped out of focus, his way of sidestepping a question—but the younger Holmes would have none of it. "Mycroft. _How long have they known?_"_

_The pale eyes refocused. "Some members of the Home Office… since before you left Cambridge._

He settles before the door and draws out his burgling kit. Selecting his tools, he sets to work at the padlock, with only a small beam of light from his dark lantern.

_Sherlock felt the urge to curse, smoke a cigarette, pace the floor. He remained seated and outwardly calm. "I see."_

_Mycroft sighed and folded his large hands together. "Sherlock, do you remember the investigation Father had taken up with Scotland Yard before he died?"_

The night air seeps in past his greatcoat and chills him. Winter is very near.

_The younger __brother felt very, very cold as his brain absorbed this new information and processed it to fit with the facts of his first case. It lined up, certainly. "Who is the inspector?" he asked, rather than continue that line of thought any longer. He couldn't dwell on it—that way led to madness, he knew._

_The older brother raised an eyebrow but answered. "Daniel Patterson, C.I.D."_

Winter is not the same in London as it is in Essex. The snow here is grey, not the clean white of the countryside. Sometimes, in spite of himself, Holmes misses the crisp winters of his early years. Then he catches himself and dismisses all such notions as sentimentality, unnecessary and unwanted to the consummate logician.

_Sherlock frowned. "A new man?" He had thought he was familiar with the full roster of Detective Inspectors and Detective Sergeants in Scotland Yard._

_Mycroft shook his head. "I believe he was promoted up just before you began working the Yard in earnest—he is but a few years your senior."_

He once expressed that opinion to Mary Watson. Her reply was quiet: "To be the perfect logician is to deny yourself your humanity. And you, Sherlock Holmes, are very human." It remains the boldest thing she has ever said to him.

_Sherlock felt a headache forming behind his eyes, massaged the bridge of his nose. "Undercover work. He was promoted for undercover… for __the love of heaven." That phrase tended to be his strongest expletive. "Do you mean to tell me you've had a man inside Moriarty's organisation for a good decade? Mycroft… Why didn't you tell me?"_

The lock clicks open. Holmes eases the door open gently and slips inside. He is uncertain of what he is seeking. He can only search the shelves of the warehouse one by one, and that may well take one or two more trips. It is roughly two hours past midnight, and he is determined to leave no later than four o'clock.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, his search has proven fruitless thus far, and he has come only a third of the way through the warehouse. Two more trips, certainly, to cover the entire building, and pray God his quarry shan't be removed before then.<p>

Four in the morning is a good time to slip through the city unnoticed. The drunks are generally home by this time, and earliest workers will not be out for another hour. Four in the morning is a rare moment of quiet in London.

Thus, Holmes's sharp ears detect the footfalls of two men following him, though he cannot see them in the fog. Professional trackers, then, for he knows he is supremely difficult to follow at the best of times, and well nigh impossible in the midst of a London Particular.

As cautious and swift as he is, he cannot shake off his pursuers through the alleys and byways of Rotherhithe, and he soon hears more men. Three… four… six… nine… eleven… a full dozen…

The fog lifts by degrees, and, without warning, they assault him all at once. Too many for him to take on alone, he knows, but that will not stop him from trying valiantly. His calculating brain takes a backseat to pure instinct, honed to a knife's edge from childhood.

_"Fists up, Sherlock."_

He ducks one sweeping arm, takes a blow to the stomach, lands a punch of his own in another's face.

_"Don't spin. Always be facing me, Little Brother."_

He is fast, and he is fierce. He is magnificent.

"_Aaugh—that was a good hit, Sherlock. Too good."_

But he is only one man. And this time, one man is not enough.

One blow slips past his guard to his left side as he tries to avoid strikes from every direction all at once. Another nicks his right arm, then it's a kick to his right shin. The blows are furious, coming over and over and over without stopping, and there is only so much even he can take before he inevitably crumples beneath the relentless barrage.

He can only lie there, facedown, on the ground, his body far too battered to rally again.

His breath once again comes in ragged gasps, harsh to his sensitive ears. It has been but a week since he took Ainstree's cure to Smith's disease; the memories are still quite fresh, and his body has not yet fully recovered. A knee plants itself in the small of his back, pinning him painfully in place; only a hint of a whimper eludes his iron self-control. His arms are wrenched back suddenly and forcefully, eliciting a gasp as agony shoots through the captive limbs. Cold metal quickly shackles his wrists together.

His head is seized by the hair and yanked up, and a rag is bound around his head, sealing his mouth shut. The rag tastes of filth, inducing nausea. At last, he hears a voice. "Well, well. So the Great Meddler _can_ be brought to heel." The smug voice sparks rough laughter, and, for a fleeting moment, he hates both. But hatred blinds logic, so he banishes all trace of the emotion to the dark recesses of his mind.

He is dragged upright to a vaguely standing position—his legs cannot currently support his weight, so he is held in place by two of his attackers. The man before him, a dockworker by his clothes but an educated man by his manner, is obviously the leader. "Who would have thought it would be so easy?"

He ignores the sneer and glances down, significantly, to draw the other's attention there. Two men lie sprawled on the ground, quite obviously dead. He then looks up with a challenging gleam in his eyes. It was not _that_ easy.

The other man snarls and strikes him hard across the face, his head snapping back at the ferocity of the blow. "Crow all you want, Holmes—it'll be your last. You've gone too far this time, and now you're finished."

Culverton Smith said much the same a week ago, but the circumstances are far removed from 221B and the aid of Scotland Yard.

A cloth drops over his face, and he struggles, feebly, beneath the fabric's sickening smell. It is chloroform.

The last thing he remembers is wishing that he'd not gone out alone…

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I don't suppose anybody recognized that final scene? Like, maybe, any AMM readers? ;-) Here's part of my A/N regarding the original posted back in March or April: _I have to say, I think this is the first time I've written capture scene in _years_. Poor Sherlock!_ The poor man just goes from one dilemma right to another, doesn't he? Yeah, that's kind of the way it goes in this novel, I'm afraid—don't worry, though: it's not an AU. ^_^

I hope desperately that Watson was up to par in this chapter—there's such a delicate balance between honoring his incredibly forgiving nature and maintaining his natural warmth of feeling (both negative and positive).

Wiggins has become such a major player. That was totally unexpected, believe me. But he refuses to stay away from his mentor, so… what can I say? He's a tenacious twenty-one-year-old.

And the mysterious Fred Porlock of VALL is making an appearance, if only off-screen. (The only other story I've seen thus far to involve him has been PGF's _Centre of the Web_, a FINA AU.) My guess is that he played a major part behind the scenes in "The Final Problem"; we just didn't hear about it.

I should note that there are elements introduced in this first novel that will be further explored and explained in sequels. After all, you don't tie up all loose ends in the premiere novel of a series! So if you see something that you wonder about, chances are good you'll find out more about it later—like Patterson.

Next up, Moriarty's POV, Wiggins and other adult Irregulars (including one that should be familiar to you), and the continuation of Holmes's… _predicament_. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	9. 8: Captive Audience

**Author's Note:**

My own novel is depressing me. Not so much the story itself (because I've known for a long time what happens), but the bother of writing it out and trying desperately to make sure that the scenes I'm writing are necessary… The "show, don't tell" rule is about to kill me. All of a sudden, the book feels like it's all dialogue and no action, and I can't even _start_ writing an investigation scene because I just don't have it in me… *bites lip* Yes, I'm more than a little upset.

And on a further depressing note, my sales for _At the Mercy of the Mind_ have long since dropped to nil, prompting me to consider taking this book to an actual publisher once I have a complete manuscript. But the sheer amount of _time_ that it takes to get so much as a response from an agent or an editor is discouraging, and the process of getting either to actually want your book is incredibly intimidating. Check that, it's downright terrifying. Self-publishing, obviously, isn't the money-maker I'd desperately hoped it would be. But traditional publishing… will that be any better?

**To my reviewer:**

MadameGiry25: I want to start by saying thanks so much for sticking with this story and reviewing every installment! That just means so much to me, especially since this novel has been _difficult_ and quite a far cry in general from the journey of writing (and posting) AMM. Greatly relieved to hear you think Watson is up to par. Good point about the flashback conversation—I edited it out of the version of Chapter 7 on my hard drive and edited it into a different chapter. I think it works better now—sorry about the confusion! *blushes* Also very glad you liked the capture scene. Thank you very much!

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter VIII==<strong>

**Captive Audience**

If a man's presence were able emanate light or darkness at will, James Richard Paul Moriarty would be such a man. His considerable physical height, piercing grey eyes, and natural charisma had a dominating effect in conversation, and men flocked to his compelling personality wherever he went. He had learned to play the game well from a young age.

Sherlock Edward Holmes was not unlike James Moriarty. The younger of the Holmes brothers possessed a commanding presence and sharp grey eyes that were the bane of all around him. But though Sherlock Edward was a consummate actor, the professor knew that the detective could never sustain the decades-long lie that Moriarty had. The younger man could not forever withhold his true nature.

Nevertheless, Sherlock Holmes was indeed brilliant, the most exceptional opponent Moriarty had ever faced. The past four years of intermittent, intellectual sword-play had been the most fascinating years of Moriarty's career; never before had he met such a challenge as the gentleman private detective. Moriarty's greater experience, impersonal touch, and higher understanding of mathematics held young Holmes at bay, yet he was not certain this state of affairs would last forever.

But, certainly, events need not have been brought to this pass so soon. Gazing across the desk at his second-in-command, Moriarty could not remember when last he'd felt such pure, unadulterated fury. To Moran's credit, he stood his ground, every bit the image of the Colonel late of Her Majesty's Indian Army.

Moriarty spent a full minute in dispelling the wrath built up inside him before speaking in a quiet, controlled voice. "My dear Colonel, I believe I have made it quite clear that I do not appreciate such… enthusiastic… initiative."

Moran was standing at attention, his large hands clasped firmly behind his back. "Yes, sir. Quite clear." Acknowledging, but not surrendering. That attitude had led to Smith's downfall, and it could be Moran's if he did not take care. Not even the Colonel was irreplaceable.

Moriarty's eyes narrowed as his head swayed slowly back and forth, purely out of longstanding habit. It was one of the walls he had built up between himself and the rest of humanity, and it served him well. "Moran, you are a tremendous asset—" he caught the rasping note in his voice and eliminated it—"and I respect and appreciate our long association. But you are not invaluable."

"I know, sir." Soldiers, Moriarty reflected, were a different breed of men. Soldiers numbered among his own relatives, his younger brother John included. John was different—different just enough that he could never serve in James's empire. James knew that he was indeed fortunate to have snared and harnessed a soldier, a warrior, to serve his own purposes. Could he ever find a full replacement for Moran, if it came to that? Not likely. But if the Colonel's judgement became a liability… well, radical factors must be eliminated. The laws that bound the universe together demanded it.

"Very well, Colonel," Moriarty said, allowing his words to frost the room over. "Explain yourself."

Moran's blue eyes met Moriarty's grey ones, fire and ice. "Sir, my men were watching him closely. He was receiving information _somehow_ of our activities in Rotherhithe, and he discovered the warehouse where the germ cultivations were being stored. He even broke into it. He'd gone too far—he had to be stopped."

Moriarty smiled, insincerely, and allowed honey to coat his next words. Let the Colonel know that he was treading on treacherous ground. "And yet… I was not consulted, my dear sir."

"It was a swift decision, sir," Moran said slowly, "after the warehouse. There was no time to reach you."

"You were there."

Moran obviously recognized the rope with which he was hanging himself, but what could he do but speak the truth? "I stood apart from my men, but, yes, I was there."

"I see." Moriarty smiled again, briefly. He had the satisfaction at last of seeing a hairline crack in his subordinate's composure.

Moran spoke before the silence could bear down on him. "It was surprisingly easy to net Holmes."

Rage spiked through Moriarty once more. "He is still recovering from Smith's disease, you fool. It is a testament to his will and strength that he put up as much of a fight as he did. Two casualties is not 'easy prey,' Moran—as a commanding officer and an experienced hunter, you should know that."

He knew that he was the only man who could call Moran a fool, take him to task, and walk away alive. Moran stiffened. "Should I _free_ him, then?"

Moriarty regarded him for a moment, rose from his chair, and turned to face the lovely _La Jeune Fille a l'Agneau_ on the wall behind the desk. He let the beauty of the painting calm him, restore his equilibrium to contemplate his dilemma.

Sherlock Holmes should not have been captured. It would have been a severe setback for the detective to have destroyed the organisation's efforts with pathological warfare, true, but… Things were not so desperate that Holmes had to be kidnapped. Ironically, the Professor had been in no personal danger until Holmes had been brought into Moriarty's own gaol.

Moran had been a fool—continued to be so, since he could not see that his hasty decision had brought danger upon himself and his master. Mycroft Holmes, Jr. remained at liberty, virtually untouchable by Moriarty… and Moriarty well knew that the elder Holmes brother would move heaven and earth to aid the younger brother in desperate circumstances. He had done so once already, thirteen years before, coming to Sherlock's aid at the last minute to prevent the boy's murder. Of the two Holmeses, Moriarty knew well who was truly more dangerous. Sherlock might well have most of the energy of the family, but the fact that Mycroft's own spurts of energy were extremely rare made them all the more powerful and lethal.

Moriarty had never before been in such danger.

Freeing Sherlock Holmes was out of the question: he might be able to trace his captors and prison back to its source this time, with results that could be upheld in a court of law. A consummate strategist Moriarty may be, but he had no wish to test his legal skills against the combined efforts of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.

And yet, to kill the man or to keep him in permanent captivity would be a lamentable waste. If there was one thing Moriarty truly hated, it was the waste of potential and talent. Sherlock Holmes possessed both in mind-numbing quantities.

A seemingly mad thought entered Moriarty's mind. Mad, perhaps, but… intriguing. Intoxicatingly so.

He pulled his attention away from the painting to the other occupant of the room. He smiled again. "Well, my dear Moran. Since you have Holmes, what do you intend to do with him?"

Moran's expression grew infinitesimally wary. "Holmes has information that could be of use to us. Certainly, he had an informer, a traitor in our ranks. We need that name."

They did, indeed, though Moriarty did not for one moment think that the traitor had used his own name in dealing with Holmes. The professor pressed his fingertips together. "You intend to interrogate him, then?"

Something in Moriarty's gaze must have made Moran falter. "Yes."

"Very well, Colonel, he is yours for the time being. _However_—" Moriarty allowed his gaze to darken—"you shall not permanently maim or dismember him, and you must not kill him."

"Of course."

Moriarty smiled thinly. "I'm afraid I know your methods only too well, my dear Colonel." He nodded once and returned his attention to his desk, picking up an envelope with a familiar noble crest. He felt rather than saw Moran salute before leaving.

And once the _shikari_ was gone, the professor looked back up and stared out into nothing, contemplating the undermining of a great detective.

* * *

><p>"Wig! Where've yew been?"<p>

"'Aven't been 'round of late."

"Case, is it?"

"Let off 'im, lads." That last was Peter, Davy Wiggin's younger brother.

"Thanks, Pete," Davy murmured, patting his brother's shoulder before taking a seat. The rest of the Twelve Apostles settled down at two tables in The Crooked Arrow. It was a favourite haunt of Yarders, so the original Irregulars began to congregate there as they reached manhood. "Aye, it's been a case, an' wot a case."

He leaned back in his chair, tired at just the thought of it. Mr. Holmes may have granted him a reprieve, but that did little to ease his mind—if anything, it made him all the more uneasy. Sherlock Holmes simply didn't take care of himself, and he wouldn't allow the Doctor or anyone else to do the job for him.

Sean, now Constable Youghal of the London Met, slid into the chair beside Davy's and thumped his helmet down on the table. "Bleedin' thing," he groaned. "I put to you, Davy, that bein' a constable's a fair sight worse'n bein' a street Arab."

Davy gave him a sympathetic look. "Buck up, old man—you'll make the C.I.D. someday."

"You're just about as smart as Davy," Peter added. "An' from wot I 'ear tell, Mr. Lestrade was 'ardly any 'igher up in s'ciety afore 'e joined the Constabulary."

"True," Sean acknowledged. "An' his surname told against him just as much as mine does." He reached up to his neck to massage it. "Ahhh, Inspector Lestrade can be a holy terror, I grant you, but he's as decent a superior as any man could hope t' have. I was lucky t' land under him'n A Division."

"An' lucky that 'e's the inspector most likely t' work wit' Mr. 'Olmes," Llew said enviously. Llew Doolittle was apprenticed out to a carpenter, and very unlikely to cross paths much with his former employer.

As the others ordered their drinks, Davy reflected on the bitterness of fate. Their childhoods were hard, but one man had bound them together. One man had made certain they would have better lives as adults. One man had made all the difference.

The flipside of Mr. Holmes's kindness was that, though he bound them together in childhood, their adulthood tore them apart. Meetings of the original twelve Baker Street Irregulars were rare, times to cherish. Their better lives guaranteed that separation—had they remained on the streets, they might have been able to stay together. Sadly, their benefactor's generosity had come to be a double-edged sword.

Davy's brooding was broken by a familiar voice. "Youghal, good evening!"

Sean turned to grin up at the young officer who had already come to be known among the Constabulary as the Gentleman of Scotland Yard. "Hallo, Sergeant Hopkins! Have a seat!"

Stanley Hopkins pulled a chair from another table up to Sean's side and straddled it. "And the rest of the Twelve Apostles," he smiled. "Hello."

There was a general chorus of greetings, and Davy reached around Sean to shake Hopkins's hand. The Yarder was only three years Davy's senior, and their mutual admiration of Sherlock Holmes had initiated their casual friendship. "Sergeant," Davy smiled.

"Wig," Hopkins nodded back. "So, how go things on Baker Street?"

Davy shrugged. "Haven't seen Mr. Holmes since… hum, near on two days, as a matter of fact. He'll send for me if he needs me." _I hope,_ he added privately.

"Is he still on the Culverton Smith case?"

"'S an important case, sir. If Mr. Holmes is right, the Professor's looking to—"

"Inspector Morton has told me," Hopkins interjected. "We have another inspector looking into it."

Sean raised an eyebrow. "But, sir, it's Morton's case…"

Davy _saw_ a lock click into place in Hopkins's mind—the man needed to work on impassivity. It was a trait every street lad knew by the age of ten. "I'm afraid," the junior detective said carefully, "that there are things I simply can't tell you lads."

The lieutenant of the Baker Street Irregulars chewed down a scowl—he didn't like being in the dark any more than did his employer. "Don't let it trouble you, sir," he said emotionlessly. "I'm sure we'll know soon enough."

When Davy Wiggins dropped by 221B later to learn any new developments on the case, he found his employer gone. Mr. Holmes was probably hot on a new trail. Wiggins decided to return the same time on the next day, and turned his steps homeward as a light rain drizzled down.

* * *

><p>When he first woke up, he wondered if he'd woken up at all. There was no difference between his eyes open and shut.<p>

Possibility 1: there was absolutely no light to be had.

Possibility 2: he had gone blind.

He quickly discounted the latter option as he had been rendered unconscious by chloroform, not a blow to the head. _Chloroform_…

His hands were manacled behind his back to a wall, he was kneeling on a hard floor, he _had_ been leaning forward limply… He hurt all over. His stomach was also less than pleased with his current situation. He tasted bile and tried to force it down.

Unsuccessfully. A moment later, he vomited whatever he'd eaten the day before, and he felt no better for doing so once he was finished. His throat burned from the bile and from the need to drink. His head spun horribly, despite the utter lack of light and thus his inability to see.

He had to raise himself up. It was tricky, and it took some doing—considering that his wrists were shackled behind him, his head was spinning like a cyclone, and his limbs were all screaming—but he managed to stand at last. He sagged against the wall in relief, closing his eyes and trying to breathe deeply without hyperventilating.

For one of the very few times in his life, he wished that his mind were not so quick to observe and catalogue details. He could not see, but he could feel—and his sense of smell was second to none. Stone walls and floors, cold and slimy with substances best not dwelt upon. Odours… traces of something metallic and something acidic in the air—blood and urine. And a pervading stench of sweat.

He did not like the details his senses were compiling, still less what those details implied about the immediate future. He opened his mouth to speak aloud—sound came out in a wordless croak that seemed to violate the pervasive darkness. There was a hint of an echo: a small room, then, and an empty one.

Sherlock Holmes, chained up in a completely dark cell. As nice and tight a little box as could be devised for him.

Unable to hold up his head any longer, he let it drop. He tried to swallow and found that his mouth was too dry—he realised that he needed water, desperately. Panic crept up from a dark corner of his mind; he pushed it back. Losing control of his emotions would get him to nowhere but an early grave. Still…

So often, he was able to find a way out of a tight situation, given his surroundings which could be used in aiding his escape. Not so, here. He could only hope that the inevitable appearance of his captors would show him a means, however distant, of escape.

As if summoned by the impulse of his mind, a crack of light appeared in the darkness. He squeezed his eyes shut and just as quickly reopened them. The light was growing, as was a creaking noise that was probably not all that loud but nearly deafened him nonetheless. The space beyond the door was dark, and the amber light came from a lantern held by one of the two figures in the doorway.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," a familiar voice greeted—the dockworker-gentleman. The men stepped into the cell, and Holmes, through narrowed eyes, could see that it was indeed small. But just large enough that he could not reach the door, even if he lay stretched out on the floor.

Holmes said nothing, raising his head with effort to meet the other man's eyes. Even weakened, injured, and unbalanced, his own eyes had apparently not lost all their power, for his captor shifted in discomfort.

It came without warning. A cry of pain escaped his lips as he doubled over at the knee to his abdomen; a moment later, he retched again. The kneeing was followed by a blow to the head, sending him reeling, wanting to retch once more, then a hard kick to his shins, collapsing him to the floor. A strike across his face made him taste blood even as his head snapped back, and he struggled to maintain consciousness. Through a haze of pain, he caught a glimpse of his assailant before his head lolled down of its own accord.

"Like it, Holmes?"

A kick to his ribs. He whimpered deep in his throat, unable to prevent the sound. _No logic,_ he thought wearily. _No logic to the torture. Pain for sadism's sake_.

He was jerked up by his collar, gagging him in the process. A hand grasped his chin and forced it up roughly. He saw double of his tormentor, and both figures swam in his vision. "There are many who have waited for this for a long time," the other man hissed. "You stuck your long nose in one too many places, foiled one too many otherwise-perfect plans. It's over now, Holmes. All over."

"Emp-ty… words," Holmes gasped out. _So very cliché. At least be _original,_ won't you?_

"Empty, eh?" He was tossed carelessly aside, and he cried out again as his bruised side struck the floor. "Ever been in pain like this before?" Another kick, this to his stomach. He curled into as much of a foetal position as he could. "Still empty words, Holmes?" Yet another kick to his shins. He could no longer see, and he was having difficulty breathing.

"I've seen better men than you break, Holmes, so how much do you think you can bear before you scream and beg, eh?"

_I would die first_. He would have said as much aloud, had he been able to do so. Instead, he willed his mind to quiet, his brain to shut down. His last thought before releasing himself to blessed nothingness was incongruous with his defiance:

_God, let Watson find me_…

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Poor Sherlock! (Writing his observations was interesting, though… putting myself in that position and working out what I'd be able to tell…) Oh, and yes, I'm quite aware that his tormentor was being cliché—if I hadn't been, Holmes wouldn't've made that remark. But if the man has Sherlock Holmes pretty well completely in his power, he can _afford_ to be cliché, you know?

The part with the original Irregulars… that was sad. It would have been wonderful to say that they had stuck together as adults, but… I doubt it would have been realistic. Oh, and did anybody recognize a certain name dropped in there? …Youghal, maybe? Yes, _that_ Youghal, as in "Mazarin Stone"—which, actually, I enjoy reading. MAZA may be unrealistic, but, ha, so is SPEC! And Holmes is quite the comedian in MAZA, which is awfully adorable. Anyway, I had the thought that it would be awesome if one of the Yarders Holmes worked with at one point had once been one of his own Irregulars. (And _Youghal_ is an Irish name, btw.)

Coming back to the opening scene… have I ever mentioned how much I love Moriarty? =) And getting into his head to write from his POV is deliciously chilling. You may conjecture all you wish as to what he has in mind for our dear Sherlock—I shan't give anything away.

Next up, Wiggins is concerned, Holmes is in serious trouble, and Lestrade and Patterson get involved. (Unfortunately, a short chapter.) Stay tuned!

And please, if you enjoy this story, _tell_ me. I need some _major_ encouragement right now—I need to _know_ that my hard work is being enjoyed. Please.

_**Please review!**_


	10. 9: Lost

**Author's Note:**

So, this past weekend, inspiration struck with all the force of Moriarty's special train in FINA. It was so perfect that I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before. Thus, the past few days have been spent in rewriting chapters and reworking the majority of Act II. It's been exciting, because not only does it fix my "show, don't tell" problem, but it also gives Watson a lot more screen-time and a much bigger role! *applauds* It's not that I don't like Watson—I love him dearly—but a) I find that I have more difficulty writing him than Holmes for some strange reason, and b) he didn't seem to be absolutely necessary oftentimes in the original plot, which was appalling.

But now, Watson has boldly and enthusiastically rushed up to center stage, and I couldn't be happier. I am very excited, and this turn of events should certainly excite you guys! One word: _undercover_. Let's just say that… we know Watson will go to the ends of the earth to find Holmes if he's missing, right? ;-)

Btw, new blog post today concerning the book (www . studysherlockiana . blogspot . com).

Also, who noticed the new story summary? Do you like it? Better than the original?

Last but certainly not least, a big, round _thank you!_ to the people who reviewed last time! You have no idea what a big encouragement you all were! I felt—and still do feel—blown-away, and it is such a lovely sensation. All that wonderful feedback provided a lot of fuel, momentum, and sheer giddiness that's been carrying me along the latest turn-of-events in the plotline.

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: Ahhh, yes! Glad that you enjoy Moriarty, and the "charmingly… sane" bit thrilled me to no end. That's _exactly_ what I've been shooting for; that's exactly what he _should_ be. I love that about him, that he's like the ultimate villain because he _isn't_ insane like so many other villains and supervillains. And glad that you liked the scene with the Irregulars. And Holmes. *hugs him* He's still defiant and definitely himself… for now. I'm on that interesting path of taking him _down_ by degrees, 'til he's where we find him in the Prologue. Anyway, thank you so much for the encouragement and for your faithfulness as a reviewer! (And I just might take you up on that beta offer—I do have a beta ((whom you can thank for getting me into SH in the first place!)), but it wouldn't hurt to have a second opinion.)

VHunter07: Aw, thank you so much! *hugs* That first line made me laugh, which was lovely, because it's been a while since I've gotten a review that made me laugh. By the end of your review, I'd gotten a bit misty-eyed because I was so happy. =) I must admit, I really did think that I'd be getting more reviews. While I'm not exactly one of those big, established names like KCS, PGF, Westron, or Aragonite, I did think that I'd acquired enough of a name for myself to get more than one or two reviews per chapter. (_Hint-hint_ to my _former_ regulars who seem to have disappeared since July…) Life is weird like that. *sighs* Anyway, I'm so very glad you love this! And the part about my writing Holmes well makes me so happy—as well as the "excellent storyteller" bit, since I sometimes doubt my ability to do as much plot as I do characterization. (Here's a little secret: I've never read the entire Canon more than once—in fact, if you want to get _really_ technical, I've never read the entire Canon at all because I skipped on the American back-stories in STUD and VALL. But, of course, I do study the stories with which I work.) I'm so glad you enjoyed my re-enactment, as you put it, of the canonical bits. Ha-ha, yes, the Yard, Moriarty, and the Irregulars—I seem to be unable to thrive in my novel-length stories without a large cast. But it's fun working with them all, and they're all absolutely necessary. This is, after all, a saga I'm writing. Well, the first few chapters are well-proportioned in action, but, after chapter 6, I've constantly called into question the quality of the following chapters. Glad, though, that you think it's working thus far. And, heh, my love for Moriarty is that obvious, eh? ^_^ Oh yes, he must be creepy, definitely. Oh, you're a Moran fan? Hmm, that's different—but neat! I like him, certainly, and I sure don't think there's anything wrong with elaborating on his personality, which is what I'm trying to do. Well, hang on in there! I'm not sure just how much longer I'll keep updating the FFN version of this story, but as long as I'm doing it, you'll find an update every Friday! Again, thanks so much (and my apologies for the ridiculously long reply)!

RachelG: Thank you very much! I'm flattered and honored, and thrilled that you like Holmes so much (and so happy that you loved the scene when he apologizes). And don't worry! I fully intend to finish this novel and publish it whether by a traditional publisher or Kindle (although I'm afraid the story will _not_ be uploaded in full here on FFN). If you want to learn more about my plans for this story and the series it starts, you can go to my blog (address above or link from my profile) and look up "Deliver Us from Evil".

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter IX==<strong>

**Lost**

Despite the chaos of the new building, Lestrade heard the raised voices long before he reached their source. A Lanky-tinted baritone: Morton. An all-too-familiar Cockney tenor: Wiggins.

_Cockney_. Davy Wiggins didn't use his native accent in conversation with Yarders anymore, not unless he was truly upset. Lestrade frowned and lengthened his stride to reach Morton's new office. He poked his head through the open doorway and chided gently, "You lot could be heard all the way down in Surrey. Trouble?"

Morton merely gave him an exasperated look past the Irregular's shoulder. Wiggins whirled on Lestrade, his blue eyes wide. "'Nspect'r L'straid! 'Ave yew seen Mr. 'Olmes lately?"

"Calm down, lad," Lestrade soothed. "You look almost as if you've been mudlarking." An exaggeration, of course—Wiggins was too old to go diving in the Thames for trifles, for one thing—but the boy was quite dishevelled. "Now, what's this about Mr. Holmes?"

"'E's bleedin' missin'!" Wiggins exploded. "Mrs. 'Udson 'asn't seen 'im 'n' tew days, an' I even checked wit' Mr. Mycroft. 'E ain't seen 'is bruther, neither!"

Lestrade blinked. He hadn't heard such strong Cockney from Sherlock Holmes's lieutenant in years. "Just two days, Wiggins? He's disappeared before for longer than that."

"But 'e yewshually lets _somebody_ know as 'e'll be gone fer that long!" Wiggins protested. "Least _'ints_ at it! An' 'e's in no bloomin' _condition_ t' be away from 'ome fer that long!"

Lestrade's eyebrows drew together. "What do you mean, 'in no condition'? Is the man ill? Hurt?"

"Cor blimey," the younger man murmured, "that's right. Yew lot didn't know." He took a deep breath and expelled it slowly, and, when he spoke again, his English was much improved. "That disease that he feigned to catch Culverton Smith? Well, he didn't feign it—he really _had_ it."

"Merciful heavens," Lestrade muttered alongside Morton's sharp intake of breath.

"He took an antidote, though," Wiggins continued miserably. "That's how he could finish the case before, well, before it finished him. He was still recovering when I last saw him—the bloody thing nearly _killed_ him. Not even _he_ would risk a relapse by staying away from home for so long."

Lestrade shared a look with Morton, who sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Better call in you-know-who," the big man said wearily. "The lad has a point."

Lestrade nodded. "Reckless with his health Sherlock Holmes may be, but one too many people would be willing to murder him if he got to be truly suicidal—Wig here included."

Wiggins looked between the two detectives, and his sharp blue eyes reminded Lestrade uncomfortably of the Holmes brothers—and Patterson. "Then you'll look into it?"

Morton nodded. Lestrade turned back to the boy. "I'm surprised you haven't, yourself."

"I _have_. Started to, anyway. Nothing back yet from my contacts."

Lestrade nodded. "Let us—let me—know if you come across a lead."

"Of course." Wiggins toyed with the shabby old bowler in his hands. "Well, I'd best be off, then. Somebody might've found something already." He sounded as if he didn't believe it. "Good day to you gents." He lifted the hat in salute and slipped out the door.

The two inspectors watched him go. "You don't think the Professor would have gone so far as to _kidnap_ Mr. Holmes, do you?" Lestrade said slowly, turning the issue over in his mind.

"'Fraid I can't say, Les. I haven't any experience with the man, nor do I have Gregson's or Patterson's brains."

Lestrade snorted. "I mayn't be a genius—I may even be an imbecile, as Sherlock Holmes is always so kind to point out—but I _do_ know how criminals think. If Mr. Holmes was getting too close to something big, _somebody_ high up in the Underworld just might've decided he was a bit too dangerous to be roaming around free."

"Mightn't _be_ the Professor, though."

"No, it mightn't. But if it wasn't him, who _else_ is smart enough to net Sherlock bloody Holmes?"

* * *

><p>"Mmmmph."<p>

He tried to stretch his arms and found that he couldn't. Memory returned with consciousness, and he bolted upright, fully alert—and immediately regretted his hasty action. There wasn't a part of him that _didn't_ hurt in some form or other. Except for his hands and feet—they were completely numb. Wonderful. Restoring circulation to said extremities would not be pleasant.

And his cell was still pitch-black, to boot. How lovely.

He rolled his shoulders forward experimentally and shifted them back and forth. The movement felt good, despite protests from his abused muscles. He began flexing his wrists and ankles, knowing that it would take a few minutes before he could move his fingers and toes properly. As he initiated his self-doctoring, he took stock of his injuries.

Bruised ribs, perhaps one or two broken—he wasn't sure. Aching, churning abdomen.

Swollen lower lip, bruised cheeks.

Throbbing headache. He thought he might be dizzy, but, in perfect darkness, he couldn't be certain. Perhaps a concussion?

Burning, aching throat; dry mouth. He needed water badly, and, at this point, he'd willingly take even drugged water. One could survive only a few days without water, and one could survive fewer without falling seriously ill from dehydration. Finally, a man recovering from a serious illness could have a relapse even sooner than that.

Last but not least, bruised and aching limbs, all four in various places.

All in all, Watson would be furious. _My dear Holmes, you've well and truly outdone yourself this time. No, I _don't_ want to hear an excuse about how you're in a race against time with Moriarty—you could have sent Wiggins in your stead; the lad has enough experience. How do you expect to give a case your best effort if you won't even let yourself recover from a deadly illness? Look at you: you _look_ like something dredged up from the Thames. How you've managed to survive to your _thirty-second_ year is beyond me_.

Sherlock Holmes grinned wearily. The Watson in his head sounded more like Watson than Watson did…

His injured stomach gave a rumble, and he nearly groaned aloud. Now was _not_ the time for his body to betray him with a need for food!

His hands and feet began to flex, painfully, and he sought out some other means of focus to ignore the pain. His arms touched each other, briefly, and it was then that he realised he was no longer wearing his frockcoat. In fact, his cufflinks were missing, as well, and the loose sleeves slipped up and down the length of his forearms. One brush of his tingling fingers against his back confirmed that his waistcoat was still in place, but lowering his chin to his breastbone revealed that his cravat was gone.

So was his pocket watch—he could not feel the weight of it resting serenely against his abdomen. Thank heaven he had chosen to wear his hunter's watch rather than the watch his mother had given him upon his departure for Cambridge. He had the unfortunate tendency to attach himself to his possessions, and few things were dearer to him than those which had come from Cécile Holmes.

In summary, he had been left with nothing that could be used as a weapon or a tool. His magnifying lens, his jemmy, his wallet, his cigarette case and matchbox, and his notebook were all gone. His shoes were still laced, but he needed his hands _in front_ of him to untie the laces. The waistcoat was his only piece of extraneous clothing, and he was grateful for the small favour.

He was chilled enough, already. The waistcoat, at least, provided a fraction of insulation.

His stomach growled again, louder this time. He sighed. He could go a full week without food—he'd done it before. Starvation would not concern him until his captors decided to make him go longer than eight days without sustenance. The lack of water, however, _did_ concern him. Then he chided himself for being foolish—his captors would likely not let him die of dehydration before they got (or attempted to get) whatever it was they wanted out of him.

He sighed again and huddled down into a ball to conserve his body heat. Even in this cold, likely subterranean cell, he felt more deeply chilled than he thought he should.

Realisation struck him with the force of a meteorite. His fever had returned.

* * *

><p>Finding even a distinctive-looking man like Patterson was difficult in the pandemonium that was the London Metropolitan's move into New Scotland Yard. Lestrade had no idea whether the man had an office yet or not or whether he was even in the new building. He resorted to asking after a "tall, dark, pale chap, quite lean" and eventually grew desperate enough to ask after a man who looked "rather like Sherlock Holmes."<p>

He didn't appreciate the fact that he spent two hours in doing so and ended up waiting outside the Chief Inspector's office for his quarry. He appreciated even less the fact that he had to wait another half hour before Daniel Patterson finally emerged, but he _did_ thank whatever saints were listening for not having to confront the Old Man, as well.

Lestrade was generally not liked much by the high-ups, most of whom were old enough to bear a grudge against Napoleon Bonaparte for some dead relative or other. His French surname could make life difficult at times, even though he'd anglicised the original spelling, _L'estrade_, and he pronounced it _lestraid_ rather than _lestrahd_, and he wasn't even French in the first place! He was blooming _Breton_, though born on firm English soil, and, even if people would bother to identify him as such, he would still have problems. Anglo-Saxon and Norman English alike considered Bretons to be French, and French considered Bretons to be English. Neither England nor France seemed to want to acknowledge that Bretons had been the original British and that they had lived in Brittany enough centuries to have their own bloody country.

One of Sherlock Holmes's redeeming traits was that race mattered to him only insofar as racial tendencies factored into his plans and deductions. He could not care less that Geoffrey Lestrade was Breton with a French surname (then again, the amateur was English _and_ French); what mattered to Holmes was that Lestrade bothered to admit when he was having difficulty in a case, unlike not a few of Lestrade's colleagues. Holmes even used the Provençal pronunciation that the little professional preferred, unlike most people above the working class.

Lestrade briefly wondered if race mattered to Patterson, a Scot by paternal heritage, as he rose to greet the taller man. "Patterson, I need to have a word with you."

Patterson raised an eyebrow in an eerily-familiar manner, but, by George, Lestrade refused to be put off by it this time. "Shall we have it in your office, then? I'm afraid I haven't one of my own, yet."

The smaller man nodded grimly. "This way." He waited until they were within the safe haven of his new office, the closed door providing a blessed buffer against the commotion just beyond. "Sherlock Holmes is missing," he said bluntly, pulling out his cigarette case and offering it to Patterson.

The man accepted it with a frown. "Missing? Are you certain?"

"About as certain as I can be." Lestrade took out a cigarette for himself and lit it. "One of the Baker Street Irregulars—" he paused, looking to Patterson, who nodded his recognition of that unofficial "detective" force—"Davy Wiggins, the ringleader… well, he was by a couple of hours ago, visiting Morton. He said that his employer hadn't been home in two days, and, while that in itself _isn't_ unusual, it also isn't like Holmes to be so careless of his health if he's recovering from a serious blow to it." He paused to let that information sink in.

A flicker of the ice-blue eyes told Lestrade that Patterson had got it. "Smith's disease—he wasn't acting."

"No, the blooming idiot," Lestrade sighed. "Young Wiggins is worried that Holmes has been kidnapped."

Patterson leaned back in his chair and exhaled a steady stream of smoke. "That would be a bold move for Moriarty," he mused. "Bold, and foolish—I am all but certain he knows the position Mycroft Holmes holds in Whitehall. If he does, he surely knows the resources that Mycroft has at his disposal, that the man can unleash all Hell upon Moriarty's empire if he has the means to condemn him. Being caught holding Mycroft's _brother_…" He shook his head.

Lestrade nodded knowingly. "They may rarely see each other, but Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes are two of the closest brothers I have ever seen."

"Precisely. I'm certain Moriarty is aware of that. No matter his desperation, he would not declare all-out war by taking Sherlock Holmes captive—he would dispose of the man, first. Not as easily traceable back to him."

A shiver slithered down Lestrade's spine. "Should we…" He found he could barely voice the terrible thought. "Should we be looking for a body, then?"

"Yes," Patterson said with chilling finality. "We'll search for an alive and captive Sherlock Holmes, but we must also be on the lookout for a murdered one. It could be that Moriarty's decided to eliminate his greatest obstacle at last."

* * *

><p>They stood on the platform together, watching the train pull in to the little country station. He heard her swallow beside him. "I don't think it felt real 'til now," she murmured.<p>

He drew in a steadying breath. "I must admit that…" The thought eluded his ability to translate into spoken words. He shook his head at himself and said, "Yes."

She slipped her arm around his, her hand seeking his. He allowed their fingers to entwine, exquisitely aware of how intimate the gesture was. "I shall miss you so," she continued, not a trace of tears in her voice. That was good. He didn't think he could bear it if she gave in to the choking sensation they both were doubtless experiencing—he might be tempted to do something impulsive and irrational.

And he had to leave. She knew it as well as he: this town was too small to hold him forever. As a child, he had attached himself with a fierce affection to his home, but, in the past few years, the inevitable had happened. He had outgrown his native countryside.

"Will you write?"

He smiled mirthlessly. "I wrote from Cambridge, Annie, did I not? I can write from London just as easily."

Her own smile was sad. "You shall be too busy in London."

He shook his head again. "I doubt I shall be for a while yet. Establishing my own practise, building up my reputation—it shall be slow going."

"I can't imagine that." She glanced wryly up at him. "You're too brilliant for that to take very long."

He barked an ironic laugh before handing his luggage to the porter. He turned to face her fully. "Annie. I…" He wanted to tell her how much he'd miss her, how much he wished she was coming with him, how much she meant to him. But the words were locked up behind the barricade he had built up long ago.

Cold, the other youths thought him. If only they knew what he left _unsaid_.

She understood. She squeezed his hand, gently, and repeated, "I shall miss you so." He drank in every detail, every nuance of her appearance, committed it to memory. The sun glinting off her auburn hair, her liquid brown eyes, the freckles that embarrassed her, the just-visible dimple in either cheek, the glow of skin that had long been tanned more than was considered ladylike…

"As shall I," he finally managed.

The first whistle blew.

"You'd best get on."

"Milady." He gave her an exaggerated bow, seeking safety in their beloved playacting.

"Milord," she curtseyed back.

He climbed up into one of the compartments, and, suddenly, he knew that if he did not say what was in his heart _now_, he never would. It frightened him, the enormity of it, far more binding than the move to London—but now was no time to turn coward. He whirled around and leapt back off the train, grabbing her hand. "Annie, will you marry me?"

"Sherlock!"

"Will you?" His grey eyes sought out her brown ones, which were flitting this way and that—anywhere but meeting his gaze.

Her mouth opened and closed twice before she could manage to speak. She focused on him, and he saw his answer before it was spoken. "Yes." Her smile was watery but no longer sad. "I will."

The warning whistle blew, and her eyes grew round. "Get back on! Hurry!"

He pressed a swift kiss to her hand before bounding back into his compartment and slamming the door shut. He leaned out the window and called, "I don't know when I can send for you!"

"I can wait!" she assured him as the train began to pull out. "I love you!"

His coach cleared the platform entirely when he leaned further out the window and shouted back, "I love you, Annie!"

Less than a year later, he knelt before her tombstone. Already he wore mourning black, but he could not wear a mourning ring. They'd never had the chance to say their vows. She had died under her maiden name.

_Anne __Edith Middleton_

_An Angel Called Home_

_September 20__th__, 1858—February 9__th__, 1878_

Nearly thirteen years later, he lay shivering on a floor as cold and hard as that tombstone and dreamt of her, his exhausted mind finding solace in memories of younger, brighter days.

* * *

><p><strong>Author'<strong>**s Note:**

"Lanky" stands for _Lancashire_, a distinctive brand and accent of English from that part of England. To those who wish to read Lanky in action, I recommend **Aragonite**'s fics that involve Lestrade's Lancashire in-laws, the Cheathams (in Aragonite's universe).

_L'estrade_ really is the correct way to spell the name. One supposes that our Lestrade anglicized the spelling to less prejudice against the French. Other than that, there's deucedly little to discover about the name; my saying that _lestraid_ is the Provençal pronunciation was extracted from one of Aragonite's fics with no further confirmation that this is so. But it's so very _hard_ to learn _anything_ about the name—just you go try it!

Though different fans and authors have placed Sherlock's university as being Oxford, Eton, and elsewhere, Dorothy L. Sayers deduced his _alma mater_ to be Cambridge. Since she made an excellent deduction in identifying Watson's middle name as _Hamish_ (thanks to Mary's calling her husband _James_ in TWIS), I won't dispute her reasons for placing Sherlock in Cambridge. (Besides, that's where C.S. Lewis taught! =D)

Now, as for the flashback that comprises the last scene here—in the rewrite, a lot of scenes got altered and juggled around, so much so that I'm still having difficulty figuring out where to find things in the mess of different versions of several chapters. This flashback is one such scene, and I'm not even entirely sure that it fits here. It may wind up being tossed onto the cutting room floor when all is said and done, but I felt bound to try (especially since it parallels a different scene a couple of chapters later). Anyway, since I introduced Annie a few chapters back, I wanted to flesh her out just a little bit via Sherlock's memory.

Writing this flashback was… difficult, to say the least: doing a middle point between a child/teen Sherlock (of whom I'd written several stories for AMM) and the Sherlock Holmes we know in the Canon. I think the proposal was very much him, abrupt and unexpected, and then his waiting to call "I love you" from the safety of the coach… I think that Anne Middleton was a "fixed point" to him, one of the constants in his universe that had existed since early childhood, and he could no more imagine living without her than living without his brother or his parents. Sadly, he soon found himself living without his parents _and_ Annie.

(As an aside, I'm very much against smoking, so it's quite ironic how often I find these boys of mine smoking their cigarettes and pipes—no cigars yet, for some reason…)

Okay, various odds-'n'-ends: I love the part when Holmes thinks that the Watson in his head sounds more like Watson than Watson does—I always smile along with him. Again, writing him taking stock of his situation was interesting, and even fun, figuring it all out. And writing Wiggins's strong Cockney was a definite challenge (basically, I kept replaying bits of _My Fair Lady_ in my head). Also, this chapter isn't the first time Lestrade has called Holmes a "blooming idiot"—first time was "77. Sick" in the ebook version of AMM, which is a pre-Watson, Lestrade/Holmes friendship story. Oh, and one more thing about Holmes: he strikes me as the pack-rat type, so I wouldn't be surprised if he _does_ attach himself to his possessions.

Next up, Patterson and Lestrade begin to investigate, including holding an interesting conversation with Wiggins; Mycroft informs Watson; and Sherlock… well, our poor detective just gets in deeper and deeper. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	11. 10: Reality and Surrealism

**Author's Note:**

One moment I'm ecstatic about how far I am in the novel; the next minute, I'm just short of a black mood due to how much difficulty the bloody thing is giving me. I've gotten to Chapter 15, but the chapters keep ending around or well before 2,500 words (which is deplorably short for a novel), and I keep second-guessing my scenes. I have been reading _Fiction for Dummies_, which is a great book, but also one of the sources of my self-doubt. Few things will kill a novel quicker than self-doubt, so I'm done reading the thing for the time being. …Maybe I'll just start writing one long file and then partition it into chapters. Maybe. *sighs*

Furthermore, I discovered a backhanded compliment to AMM which does me little good: the e-book is up for download on a download site. I found it through a French webpage. Over a thousand downloads. That's at least _three thousand_ dollars that I have _not_ made (the book sells for $5.99 on Amazon); I've only made roughly 30 sales worldwide. The fact that the book has garnered some 60-80 percent positive reactions does little to mollify me. Now, I'm all in favor of downloading sites, as hypocritical as it sounds. But, for heaven's sake, the book only went online late June! And it's _self-published_, whoever-put-AMM-up-on-that-site, which means that piracy of my book _very directly hurts me_. There _is_ a difference between traditionally-published books and self-published books—in the former, the author at least gets a sizeable advance; in the latter, the author is totally dependent on how many sales she makes.

Yeah, I'm more than a little heated about this.

**WARNING:** I know that some people think warnings are necessary for torture, so I'm tacking this notice up. …Well, Holmes is imprisoned, and you knew Moran was planning to have him interrogated. *shrugs*

**To my reviewers:**

Rachel G: Wow, thank you very much! *blushes* (Hmm, now I _know_ that my crush on Holmes is self-evident… must destroy evidence…) ^_^ Don't worry, I'll be sure to keep everybody updated on the book and let the whole world know once it's published. ;D Thanks again!

MadameGiry25: Aw, don't be sorry if FFN kept you away! ;D Ah yes, Wiggins—I love him so much. ^_^ Well, starting with this chapter, we're going to be seeing a bit more from Holmes's quarter—honestly, there's only so much of him in captivity that I can show, because Act II kind of shifts the stage-light away from him to Lestrade, Watson, Wiggins, and Patterson. We know that Holmes has to reach the state of mind found in the Prologue, so I have to show that descent. But Act II… oops, never mind, that's more than I want to give away. *sheepish grin* Glad the flashback interested you. I think what will happen is that we'll get bits and pieces of Sherlock's youth scattered throughout the series—and by the last page on the final book, it may not all be as clear as the Baring-Gould "biography," but, by golly, you'll have a _lot_ of back-story. All in all, thank you!

VHunter07: *grins* Patterson _is_ supposed to unsettle you a little like he does Lestrade, and, for me, it's that he's more Sherlock Holmes than Sherlock Holmes is. If you're not sure that you understand that, Wiggins works it out pretty clearly in his mind in the second-to-last scene of this chapter. ;D Aw, that made me happy to find out that you made a mental note to mention the Watson bit! Yeah, I think _I_ needed a bit of Watson-cuteness as much as everybody else. Ha-ha, just you wait—I think you're going to like what's coming up in a few chapters. And don't worry about Wiggins: he'll be very much involved! (And so glad that you like him!) Yeeeah, I'd agree with that most-talent/least-appreciation sentiment. For being one of the oldest fandoms out there (possibly _the_ oldest?), Sherlockiana is sadly small compared to stories that deserve their bigger size less (in many cases, _far_ less). Flattered you think I balance the angst well—it's one of my favorite things to write, but, on the other hand, I have to have some kind of bright spot lest I enter in one of my own black moods. Ah, the "Moriarty's Watson" comparison—I've seen that once or twice before. Eep, very dark and twisted Watson… *shivers* I haven't really worked out a personal back-story for Moran yet, but that's coming—all I have just now are characteristics, values, etc. Aww, you should publish! I want to read! =) And, hey, something I tell other reviewers: NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR LONG REVIEWS! There is no greater joy to the recipient! Especially when I'm really in the throes of depression—I tend to re-read my reviews. It's heartening to know that people are enjoying my hard work and think that it's great. All in all, thank you very much!

fayfayzee: Aw, gee, don't be reading this when you have homework to do—you make me feel guilty! …But thank you for the compliments. *blushes* Glad you liked those three bits—those are some of my favorites, too! =)

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter X==<strong>

**Reality and Surrealism**

The man before Geoffrey M. Lestrade is thirty-eight years of age. He is the scion of an old Scottish family, a family transplanted some two and a half centuries ago with no title but plenty of wealth. He attended Eton before cutting his university education short and entering Scotland Yard.

This much is a matter of police record, easily discovered by anyone in the Met. But what that record will _not_ say is that this gentleman was tapped by the Home Office for his evident genius when his mind began to turn towards criminal investigation. Nor will that record say that the man who chose him was none other than Sir Mycroft Holmes, Sr.

Inspector Lestrade knows this only because he worked briefly with Sir Mycroft in 1877, the very year that the man was murdered. And because Lestrade is the Yard's official liaison to the man's heir, Mycroft Holmes, _Jr_.

Lestrade wonders if the uncanny resemblance to Sherlock Holmes ever disturbed either Mycroft. He wonders if Sherlock Holmes has ever met his doppelganger. He wonders where the familial connexion lies, because he cannot believe that two men so eerily alike do not share a common ancestry somewhere in the past century.

And he fervently prays that the man who looks like the Great Detective truly _thinks_ like the Great Detective, because it will take a Sherlock Holmes to find Sherlock Holmes.

On the other hand, if Patterson's similarities to his amateur double were unnerving before, that feeling is multiplied exponentially now. Patterson is rummaging carefully through Mr. Holmes's belongings in 221B itself, and Lestrade wishes to Heaven that he could detach himself from all these sensations of wrongness as easily as Patterson and Holmes seem able to do.

At least Patterson is wearing brown, unlike the very monochromatic Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade needs only one hand to count the number of times he's seen Mr. Holmes in a colour other than black or grey, unlike Dr. Watson, who quite favours brown. With Patterson in brown, Lestrade has a slightly easier time seeing the man as his own person.

Lestrade hasn't the faintest idea how many times he's done this, searched a person's house for clews. Sometimes, it feels terribly like a breach of privacy, seeing someone's most intimate belongings: a lock of hair, a love letter, an old cameo portrait, the family Bible. But never before has such an investigation felt as sacrilegious as it does now. Sherlock Holmes is an intensely private person—little wonder he dislikes the Doctor's stories, for they show him as he is: a fallible, vulnerable human being. The insufferably arrogant but incredibly intelligent amateur would not take kindly to his papers and books being examined, even in the intent of coming to his aid.

Patterson has already dispatched men—he won't say whom; Lestrade merely knows that, like the Baker Street Irregulars, these men are not part of the London Metropolitan—to search for a body matching Mr. Holmes's description, even if vaguely. He's also warned these men to keep their investigation quiet: Sherlock Holmes is so immensely popular that there is no telling what kind of catastrophe could come of the general public knowing, if only by rumour, that the Great Detective is missing and even presumed dead.

Lestrade cannot accept the possibility of Holmes's murder, can hardly even contemplate it. It's an unfair, unjust world, and he knows it better than many, but the murder of such a man… would simply be _far_ too wrong. His amateur colleague can only be described as "larger than life," and one cannot associate death with such men.

The small detective is jerked out of his brown study when Patterson breaks the unnatural silence in the sitting room. "Anything among the telegrams?" The taller man's blue eyes seem for a moment to have thawed a few degrees, and Lestrade realises that Patterson knows the turn of his thoughts. Well, it wouldn't take a Holmes to deduce that, thank goodness—just about anyone who knows the amateur would be thinking the same.

Lestrade clears his throat and says, "Here," handing over the small pile of telegrams. They are all by the same people, wires from someone called "Porlock" and copies of wires sent by someone called "Vernet." Lestrade knows the Holmes family history reasonably well, and he knows the relation to the French family of artists. "Do you know this chap Porlock?"

Patterson skims through the papers with a quick eye. "I… might have some idea…" His eyes widen. "Good _god_, Lestrade, Holmes stumbled across a live _volcano_."

The older man feels the urge to knead his forehead. "It's as bad as all that?"

"Where is Wiggins?" Patterson says in lieu of a reply. "Can you get in touch with him?"

Very well, it's much worse. But if Holmes is missing, it _would_ be, wouldn't it? "Better still, I can take you right to his house."

"Excellent." Patterson springs forward from his seat on the settee, inevitably putting Lestrade in mind of Holmes's foxhound-like spurts of energy. It is really ridiculous, for the two men to be so much alike and possibly never having even met once in all their lives. Lestrade merely sighs the sigh of the weary follower and hurries after his fellow Yarder.

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes observed the world as it passed him in all its beauty and squalor, its intricate details laid bare before his penetrating gaze. Here was a clerk who was cheating his wife; there, a mother who had abandoned her children to her sister's care. And here, a rector was taking care of his ailing brother whilst attending to his congregation; and there, a young maid working to support her parents. One might observe the best and worst of humanity from a hansom cab, if one knew what to look for.<p>

Today, however, the exercise was far less conscious and therefore less detailed (and perhaps less accurate) in its deductions.

Mycroft was concerned.

He was quite accustomed to being concerned for his brother's wellbeing; it was rather a lifelong state of affairs for him. At least in the first four years of Sherlock's career, Mycroft had had an ally in Inspector Lestrade, and, following that, there was Dr. Watson to look after Sherlock. Even after the good Doctor's wedding, he held on to their friendship. Sherlock could not have a worthier comrade.

Thus, seldom had Mycroft solid reason to worry for his brother's very life, and it was this reason that brought him off his rails for the first time in two years to visit a certain general practitioner's office on Paddington Street. It was just as well that Sherlock had never told John Watson just how static Mycroft's habits were, or the government official's visit would instantly put the doctor on alert.

He was greeted at the door by Mrs. Watson herself (absentminded maid, how unfortunate) and promptly led to the sitting room, where Dr. Watson appeared forty-nine seconds later. "Mr. Holmes!" he smiled, extending his hand. "An unexpected pleasure!"

Mycroft rose and shook it. "Ah, my dear sir, I see that, despite the virulent bacteria invading every corner of our fair city, you are tired but otherwise none the worse for it and thriving."

John Watson chuckled briefly. "Indeed. Please, do sit back down." He settled into what must have been his own armchair by the grate. "Is anything amiss?"

"I'm afraid so, Doctor." Mycroft had heard his subordinates call him _cold-blooded_ before; they did not understand the full importance of keeping a cool head in a crisis. He knew that Dr. Watson, however, understood all too well; every British army surgeon worth their salt did. He watched the man's genial expression fade into one of calm expectation. "You see, certain people have reason to believe that my brother is missing, and I am inclined to agree with them."

Mycroft had seen it before, veterans whose eyes turned hard and mouths turned grim in moments of crisis. It was the look of men who had been through the fire and had returned scathed but alive. John H. Watson had survived Maiwand and Candahar, and he'd returned to London only to see the city at its very worst, thanks to his association with Sherlock. At Mycroft's pronouncement, John Watson was once again on the battlefield. "I see," the younger man said quietly. "What motive could someone have in recent weeks for kidnapping your brother?"

Mycroft linked his fingers together over his substantial girth. "Perhaps you have not heard that the Culverton Smith Case has not yet been closed?"

Watson started. "I had not. Did that monster escape?"

Mycroft shook his head. "The man was poisoned in his own cell. Doctor, Sherlock traced Smith's crimes to Professor Moriarty."

Betrayal flickered in the hazel eyes, and it angered Mycroft to see it. Callous child, his brother, to deceive his poor friend and then still withhold information—Sherlock certainly _needed_ Watson, but he just as certainly did not _deserve_ him.

"I didn't know," Watson murmured. He massaged the bridge of his nose. "Moriarty… You believe the Professor kidnapped your brother?"

"Perhaps," Mycroft said slowly, allowing Watson time to digest the danger and the possibilities.

He saw comprehension dawn on the doctor's tanned features, and horror swiftly followed before it was suppressed. "He could be dead."

"We cannot rule out that possibility," Mycroft said softly.

Watson surged to his feet. "Who is handling the investigation?"

Mycroft had anticipated that question. "Doctor, your safety has long been my brother's highest priority—he would not appreciate your endangering yourself for his sake."

"Who is handling the investigation."

"Doctor…"

"_Mr. Holmes_." Watson's voice had hardened with the authority he'd carried in his brief but harsh career in the army, and his hazel eyes had darkened. "Your brother would also understand that I would go through a _thousand_ Maiwands again to keep _him_ safe. I repeat: who is handling the investigation?"

Mycroft could certainly understand how even Sherlock's iron will could be overridden by this man. "Inspector Daniel Patterson and Inspector Lestrade." It wasn't an actual surrender, for the Doctor could simply go to Scotland Yard and ask. Mycroft simply wished that Watson would not needlessly jeopardize his safety.

Watson nodded sharply. "Thank you."

"Doctor, there is one thing you should know about Inspector Patterson before you meet him."

"And that is?"

"He could be mistaken for my brother's twin."

* * *

><p>The complete darkness of his cell had nearly blinded him. Whenever his water and food were delivered, he had to shut his eyes lest the light used by his gaolers damage his vision. The water was undeniably drugged, but he really did not care. Perhaps that was a dangerous indifference, but he needed the liquid too badly.<p>

He refused to die in captivity simply of fever.

The food was another matter. It was some sort of gruel, and, with his hands manacled behind him, his captors had to feed him as well as give him his water. He chafed at the humiliation. However, after two meals, he found that he could no longer manage the unsavoury fare—he was simply too ill. The man in charge of his water and food backhanded him, then pressed a hand to his damp forehead. He cursed and struck Holmes to the floor, snarling something—Holmes couldn't quite make it all out past the oceanic roar in his ears—about idiot busybodies who let themselves get sick.

Holmes could only lie there and curl up into shivering ball, praying that this relapse would not be as deadly as the initial disease.

"Sherlock?"

"Mary?" He didn't open his eyes—the eyelids were too heavy.

There was a rustling sound, and then a small, warm hand was stroking his face. "Oh, Sherlock." She sounded so sad. "What have they _done_ to you?"

"_Mon petite sère_," he murmured, saying aloud for the first time the name he'd long since given her in his head.

"Shh. Lie still now. You'll be all right." Her touch was soft and gentle… "I shall have to get John to patch you up, shan't I? Wait a moment—I'll go find him."

"No, wait! Mary!" His eyes flew open. She was gone.

He clamped his mouth firmly together against the moisture gathering in his eyes. One drop of saltwater escaped his defences and rolled down his cheek. "Oh, Mary…"

Why was waking up from one's own dreams more painful than physical blows?

* * *

><p>Wiggins was surprised to meet a Yarder who looked like his employer, but he was even further surprised to recognise the man, though doing so took a minute. "Morris," he breathed.<p>

Patterson's blue eyes widened, and Lestrade's brown eyes narrowed. "Who _are_ you?" Patterson demanded sharply. Wiggins supposed he had the right; after all, they were in public, even if _public_ in this case mostly constituted of policemen or retired policemen here at The Crooked Arrow.

Wiggins perched himself on the table behind him and swung his feet unconcernedly. "Donovan," he said quietly, in an Irish accent. "Top o' th' afternoon t' ye, guv."

Patterson eyed him for a moment, then slowly exhaled. "Heavens, it's a smaller town than we think."

"That it is," Wiggins agreed, dropping the accent.

"I take it, then, that you two know each other," Lestrade said dryly.

Wiggins nodded. "I knew him as a man in the Professor's gang who wanted to see the Professor taken down." He kept his voice lowered enough that no one else in the tavern would hear him.

"And _I_ knew _him_ as a lad with some slight connexion to Holmes," Patterson finished. "I never suspected that the boy was Holmes's right hand."

Wiggins smiled without the expression reaching his sapphire blue eyes. "I'm flattered, but that position belongs to the Doctor. Always has, always will. So, you're the chap what's going to find Mr. Holmes?"

"I am," Patterson affirmed with a complete lack of arrogance. Lestrade looked mildly impressed—Wiggins made a mental note to ask the man about his colleague later. "Although, I warn you, I don't exactly expect to find him still among the living."

Wiggins snorted and folded his arms. "I figured as you'd say something like that. Inspector, you may have more experience with the Professor and his gang, but I've had ten years with Mr. Holmes. He's not dead."

"How can you be so certain?"

Wiggins met the older man's gaze squarely. "I am," he said simply. "If you knew Mr. Holmes as I do, you'd know, too."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "I've known him even longer, lad, and… Wig, there's still a possibility he might be—"

Wiggins shifted his gaze to meet the smaller man's. "No, Lestrade," he said firmly, deliberately using the surname without the title. "I don't think there is. Look at it from a genius's point of view. Mr. Holmes wants to _catch_ the Professor, not kill him. Why? Because the Professor's a _mastermind_, the kind of genius you find only once or twice in a lifetime. He's the sort of challenge Mr. Holmes has been looking for for years. Mr. Holmes isn't even certain _he's_ on the same intellectual plane as the Professor—he's said as much to me. He has tremendous respect for the man's brains.

"Now switch that viewpoint. Sherlock Holmes is a genius, right? A prodigy. He's been solving difficult cases since he was _nineteen_. Most lads aren't out of university yet at that age, though, yes, I know he quit university. But he didn't need it—his rate of success speaks for itself. Again, one of those minds that's rarer than a sunny day at a foundry. Since when has the Professor ever crossed swords with someone like Mr. Holmes? _Never_. I'm sure the Professor appreciates genius as much as Mr. Holmes does, even on the other side of the law. Would the Professor be any more willing than Mr. Holmes to end their little feud in death? Don't forget that, as many times as Mr. Holmes has thwarted the Professor, the Professor has eluded Mr. Holmes.

"No, gentlemen." Wiggins punctuated his declaration with a shake of his head. "Sherlock Holmes isn't dead. Damaged, in all likelihood—" the coolness of his own voice surprised him—"but not dead."

Patterson's dark eyebrows drew together, but there was a glimmer of respect in his iceberg-like eyes. "Well reasoned, sir."

Lestrade planted his fists on his hips. "Yes, well, as worthy as those deductions were of your teacher, Wig, we didn't come here for deductive reasoning—we came for _information_."

Wiggins fished a cheap packet of cigarettes out of his jacket and lit himself one. "I'd offer you gents one, but they're probably below your taste." He smiled humourlessly, and Lestrade merely snorted. "Well, if it's information you're after, you've come to the right place. Need to know more about the Culverton Smith Case, yes?"

"That, and a man called 'Porlock,'" said Patterson.

"Hum." Wiggins blew out a steady stream of smoke. "Can't help you much on that last, there—not even Mr. Holmes knows much about Fred Porlock, other than that the name is false."

"I believe I might know who he is, but I am not certain."

Wiggins nodded. "Dr. Watson might actually be able to tell you more than I can. Porlock's been feeding Mr. Holmes tips without request and information upon asking for the past… three years, I think. Yes, three. Decent enough sort, I gather, for that gang. He wants his compensation for sticking out his neck like that, but I can't say as I blame him for it. I don't like it when Mr. Holmes relies extensively on Porlock for information, mind you, as all that data from one source might not be entirely accurate, but…" He shrugged.

Patterson had drawn a briar pipe from his jacket and was now packing it. The similarities between him and Mr. Holmes were startling, but there were subtle differences. For all the Yarder's cleverness, his was not the diamond intelligence of Wiggins's mentor—Wiggins couldn't quite say _how_ he knew it, but he did.

Perhaps it was the hands. Sherlock Holmes's long, slender hands were never still, always occupied with some small task or other. _Nervous fingers_, the Doctor had said in _The Sign of the Four_. Wiggins saw those restless hands as an extension of Mr. Holmes's restless mind, never quiet, always working.

Patterson's own hands had none of that frenetic energy, every movement calm and deliberate.

Sherlock Holmes was a dark cloud on the horizon, rumbling with suppressed power and threatening to burst forth at the first opportunity. Daniel Patterson was as serene and distant as the wispy clouds promising fair weather.

With that analogy came understanding, and Wiggins very nearly smiled. Inspector Patterson was quite the reasoning machine, all cold and calculating intellect, and Mr. Holmes, for all his ideals of being the consummate logician… was warm and so very human that he defeated his own façade.

Lestrade's voice drew the young man back to the present. "Wig, Mr. Holmes believed Culverton Smith to have been hired by Professor Moriarty, correct? Why?"

Wiggins cocked an eyebrow. "That's a question as loaded as Dr. Watson's service revolver, Inspector—actually, that was what Mr. Holmes was investigating when he disappeared. Apparently, Smith was hired to create an incurable disease, in which, fortunately, he didn't succeed…"

* * *

><p>"Holmes."<p>

"_Watson._ Watson, my dear fellow…"

Watson smiled, but the smile seemed all wrong. Holmes tried to work it out, but his mind spun and swam, and his beloved reasoning danced just beyond his reach. "My dear Holmes…" Watson lifted him up, gently, and Holmes almost collapsed limply into his arms.

Then Holmes found himself pressed to the wall by his friend's hand. "Watson? Watson, what…"

His friend clucked and shook his head in disappointment. "It's really come to this, has it? Pity."

The voice sounded wrong. Holmes stirred beneath the hand, which then pressed firmly against his abdomen, leaving him struggling to draw breath. His mind then caught up with his instincts. _Not Watson_. _Hallucination_. His drugged brain was superimposing Watson's face over that of this other man's.

He could almost have wept at the cruelty of his own vivid imagination.

Not-Watson smiled viciously and drew a knife from his jacket, twirling it tauntingly before the detective's eyes. "Heard you were quite put out by Saucy Jack," the man smirked. Unbidden, images of the Ripper's victims flashed before Holmes's mind's eye, and he just suppressed a shudder. "The Great Detective couldn't find London's most infamous multiple murderer. Such a pity. Think you'd enjoy receiving the treatment all those wenches did?"

Holmes merely glared at the other man. Not-Watson shrugged and placed the tip of the knife at the hollow of Holmes's throat—he could feel his heartbeat vibrating beneath the prick of cold steel. His body attempted to tense up, but a rampant fever and whatever drugs were coursing through his veins combined to make that instinctive action nearly impossible. He felt sluggish and boneless and oh-so-tired.

"You could be a bit more grateful, you know," Not-Watson said softly, dragging the knife lightly along Holmes's collarbone. The detective's only response was to bite down on his lip as the blade cut a fine red line through waistcoat, shirt, and skin. "You're not going to die of that bloody fever—we've seen to that, already. You're getting your medicine."

The knife lifted, pressed against his right shoulder, and began a path down that arm. Holmes sucked for air as he tried to focus on something else—_anything_ else. He'd survived injuries far worse than this, but, dear God, it was slow, and it _hurt_.

"_Two_ kinds of medicine, actually," his tormentor smiled maliciously. "If you only knew how many men have been longing to give you this special treatment for _years_."

The knife began to carve a zigzag pattern, and Holmes bit down on his lip until he tasted blood. The other's smile widened. The knife twisted suddenly into the forearm, and Holmes cried out.

"I don't suppose anyone's told you there's a purpose to all this?" Not-Watson mused. "You see, dear fellow, you… know… a few things that _we_ need to know."

_Porlock_. It was the only thing that came to his admittedly slowed mind—the identity of the leak in Moriarty's empire. "Do you… seriously believe… I'd…" He couldn't even finish gasping out the sentence.

"Oh, I think you will, Mr. Holmes." The blade came up and traced a minute line across his cheek, and he keened deep in his throat. "Not even you can hold out forever."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Okay, that was… not quite the _darkest_ thing I've ever written, but it's definitely up there. (If a murderer wanted to go in for sensational, it would definitely be scary to find the body of Sherlock Holmes mutilated like the Whitechapel murders.) In typing this last scene, I consulted my own illustration for AMM's "19. Rescue" (you can read the story online, but you have to buy the book to see the drawing). I needed to see the wounds I'd drawn on poor Sherlock. One of the eye-catching bits of the picture is that his right sleeve has somehow been slit open—now I know why.

(Saucy Jack, a.k.a Jack the Ripper. The Whitechapel murders actually took place, for the most part, the same _autumn_ as SIGN: 1888.)

Ah, and as to the bit about Patterson being more Sherlock Holmes than Sherlock Holmes is… do you get it now? It's there in Wiggins's musings. _Inspector Patterson was quite the reasoning machine, all cold and calculating intellect, and Mr. Holmes, for all his ideals of being the consummate logician… was warm and so very human that he defeated his own façade_. There seems to be a general consensus that Sherlock Holmes is this aloof, emotionless person, basically—helped along by Watson's "brain without a heart," "all emotions…were abhorrent," and "For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart". This is probably the view that the Great Detective wished us to take of him, but I really don't think it an accurate portrait. It's like getting the details of a person's appearance in a black-and-white photo but needing a color photo to see the full picture. Consider: Sherlock laughs. He gets distressed. He can't resist being dramatic. He broods. He complains. He gets depressed. He gets angry. He goes through a nearly complete spectrum of emotions in the Canon.

And I think that by Patterson _living_ the image Holmes attempts to _project_, it makes Holmes that much more human.

Oh, and for the record, I haven't seen more than a dozen different Holmeses (perhaps not even that many—I'm not sure), but I don't think that any Holmes actor has ever reproduced those "nervous fingers" as thoroughly as Jeremy Brett. Have any of you Granada watchers ever noticed that? Either his fingers or his hands are almost always moving.

While we're on the Granada track… Colin Jeavons!Lestrade, FTW. He really ought to be known as the definitive Lestrade! (And those big dark eyes!) I would say that my version of Lestrade is very much a mix of Canon and Colin Jeavons, together with a rather popular fanon image of Lestrade as espoused by Aragonite, bemj11, Pompey, Tristan-the-Dreamer, and a few others: though Lestrade differs from portrayal to portrayal, he's always stubborn and persistent, intelligent in his own right, and compassionate.

And more of Big Brother! Having several younger siblings of my own (most of which I'm _positive_ are smarter than I), I can sympathize with Mycroft in a firstborn-to-firstborn kind of way. Seeing Watson through Mycroft's eyes was fun.

Last but certainly not least… the scene when Sherlock dreams of Mary… broke my heart to write it. (For anybody who is as ignorant of French as I very nearly am, he called her "my little sister." Which is how I think he regards her.)

Okay, enough of this ridiculously-long A/N! Next up, tragedy strikes once more—this time, nuclear force. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	12. 11: The First Reichenbach

**Author's Note:**

First off, let me say that I am so terribly sorry to keep you all hanging! But it really wasn't my fault, I swear it wasn't—I tried uploading early because I found out last-minute that I probably wouldn't be getting this out on-time… And then at the library, the Internet rules include: no flash-drives need apply. Needless to say, I'll be taking my laptop with me next time and use the wi-fi.

Anyway… wow! For the first time since I started this, I have a full bundle of reviews! Thank you, guys—that makes me so happy! =)

I thought I'd say a few quick words about Patterson. If he disturbs you or you dislike him, etc… well, that's okay. You're reacting to him, like Lestrade does. Patterson is _not_ meant to be an intrinsically likeable man, though there _is_ more to him than, heh, meets the eye. Maybe those of you that don't like him will warm up to him in future novels…

I would like to note that I listened to several different pieces of music at different times while writing the main scene of this chapter: "Dante's Prayer" by Loreena McKennit, "The Final Problem" from the Granada soundtrack, and "Order 66" from the _Revenge of the Sith_ soundtrack. All three tracks can be found on YouTube, and I would even recommend picking one of them to listen to while reading the scene that starts with "In any other situation, Watson would have been fascinated"…

**To my reviewers:**

Spockologist: Heeey! *hugs* Long time, no hear (except for that one PM that I still must answer—sorry about that! *blushes*). And… wow, thank you! *blushes again* I would argue that I've read a few authors who can pull off an authentic Holmes voice, but I'm very flattered to hear that you think my Holmes voice is so good!

Historian1912: Hmm, I dunno that you can really skim through this story. =) I'll allow that one can do that with quite a few of my other fics, but this has to be my most complex story ever. I can't _help_ but be prolific—if I wasn't, I'd go _nuts_, seriously! Ooo, good luck with your fic, college, job, research, and books! …Wow, that's making even my hectic life sound less crazy. ^_^ Oh no, I hope you get your Kindle working properly! (If not, there's always the downloadable PC program that's completely free.) Two factors are against my writing an original novel any time in the foreseeable future: 1) I have always had _extreme_ difficulty in coming up with a story idea that's all my own, and 2) I don't _want_ to write anything but Sherlock Holmes right now. I have enough ideas for Sherlockian novels to keep me busy for the next several years. And that person really _didn't_ know what he was talking about—most Sherlockians know better than that, and most Sherlockian novels these days _aren't_ authorized (not that they need it, anyway). A classic example is the series that keeps hitting the _New York Times_ Bestsellers list: the Mary Russell books by Laurie R. King—not at all authorized. You can't really compare Sherlock Holmes to Star Wars, because _all_ Star Wars fiction utilized for profit _must_ be licensed by Lucasfilms, Ltd. by law. Besides which, I will get this novel published by a traditional publishing house, by golly! =) (Oh no… I got that email in the middle of sporadic Internet and now I'm going _back_ to sporadic… I am so sorry! I'll get back with you when I can, promise!)

MadameGiry25: Ironically, the scene with dream!Mary is longer and more in-depth than the original… I'll sit on it for a few more days, come back to it, and see what I can do. Thanks! And thank you for the Whitechapel bit—made me perversely happy. ^_^ Well, glad _somebody_ likes Patterson (or his contribution, whatever ;D). *grins* Glad you enjoyed Mycroft, and Watson through Mycroft's eyes! Thanks so much for everything! (And again, I _love_ your long reviews!)

finderj: Thank you very much—and thank you for the favorite!

fayfayzee: As far as Patterson goes… *points above* =) And I absolutely agree with the Granada bit (and, yes, down with the Guy Ritchie films! Bleh!). Thank you very much!

VHunter07: *whistles innocently at the two sentences* (Regarding the "more like Holmes than Holmes") thank you! And as far as Holmes being more passionate than most people, that is _absolutely_ what I see in him. Well, heh, you've _read_ AMM, so you might recall these lines: _It was not that he did not feel, for he did. It was that he __felt too deeply__. His own force of emotion disturbed and frightened him, so he had learned to lock the emotions away beneath a convincing façade_. But the way you put it was all that in a nutshell, so bravo! The poor man seems to be stereotyped as this cold, aloof person (or, at the very least, someone who is most uncomfortable with emotions), and yet that is _not_ what I see when I read the Canon. …Ooo, you think Watson's intense and scary now… lady, you ain't seen _nothin'_ yet! ^_^ I had to laugh when you called Wiggins a "proper genius." Well, the lad's certainly learned from his teacher! Oh yeah, and I also laughed when you said you weren't sure that Patterson isn't Moriarty in disguise. Hmm… _that_ would be an interesting AU… great, you've probably started something with my bloomin' plot bunnies and I just don't know it yet! Very glad you loved the cloud description of Holmes—it _is_ next to impossible to get him in a nutshell, so I was really happy to come up with the cloud analogy. As far as being _cruel_ to Holmes goes… *shifty eyes* I must keep mum. I'll answer that… later! Anything I could say would just be spoilers right now! But you're right: when Watson gets to the bottom of things, folks will be sorry. And, yes, I _loved_ your long review—thank you so much for that! Oh, you did buy AMM? Yay! *hugs* No, the drawing is in the original edition (and I think you probably bought it after the miniscule edits I made, anyway)—perhaps the program was being screwy with pictures? It's done that to me before. Btw, I had to say this: from your profile, I deduce that you're a _Sherlock Holmes in the 22__nd__ Century_ fan. ^_^ I have a few short stories up for SH22 under my profile, if you're interested! Thank you for everything!

Rachel G: Heh, sorry—don't mean to be killing you! =) Thank you very much, though, for the lovely praise! *blushes* (And I'm very, _very_ glad you're seeing Jeremy in the role.)

_© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire._

_All rights reserved._

**==Chapter XI==**

**The First Reichenbach**

Three men stood together, gazing down at the long, lean body sprawled on the slushy cobblestones. The sun shone overhead but did not reach into the alley. A whistle blew as a train pulled out of Paddington Station, just beyond the high walls.

"Looks loik 'im," one of the men murmured.

"I'll see the Professor in 'ell if it is," another muttered darkly, emphasising his vow by spitting out a wad of chewing tobacco.

The third man _hmphed_. "Better get Patterson 'ere double quick—'im an' the nearest bobby."

* * *

><p>"They've found a body."<p>

Watson whirled around, the colour draining from his face at that pronouncement. Lestrade mentally cursed Patterson's timing and lack of tact. Gregson cursed it aloud, finishing with "now what in bloody blazes d'you mean 'they've' found a body?"

"Just what I said," Patterson returned calmly as he entered Lestrade's office. "There's been a body found matching Mr. Holmes's description—tall, thin, pale, dark hair." Lestrade couldn't help being impressed at the lack of irony in Patterson's voice in listing the basic physical characteristics—basic physical characteristics that the Yarder, of course, shared with the amateur.

"Then it might not be Holmes," Watson breathed, his colour returning.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Doctor, allow me to introduce to you Inspector Daniel Patterson. Patterson, Doctor John Watson."

"A pleasure, Doctor," Patterson said solemnly, extending his hand, "though I wish it were under better circumstances."

"As do I, sir." Watson took the hand and shook it firmly, never once raising a hair at the man's incredible similarity to Holmes. "I understand that this is your case."

"Quite so." Patterson leaned against the wall, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets. "The facts of the corpse are these: the body was found in the alley behind Paddington Station, apparently moved there. There are multiple wounds on the body—burns, large welts, knife slashes."

The other three, to a man, flinched. The Whitechapel murders hung in the air amongst them, an all-too-recent ghost, and Lestrade knew that Watson's memories of those blood-soaked months were far more vivid than his or Gregson's.

"However," Patterson continued, "there was no blood in that alley, hence the conjecture that he was moved. The coroner determines the man's age to be early thirties or thereabouts and the cause of death to be several slashes across the throat." The tall man did not seem to stop so much as _pause_, and Lestrade wondered uneasily what his colleague was not saying.

"Yes, Inspector?" Watson. Apparently, the Doctor had picked up on it, as well—let no one say that John Watson, M.D. was unobservant.

Patterson's icy eyes flicked over in Watson's direction. "Doctor, I shan't lie to you—the body is very badly mutilated, even partially eviscerated. The heart was removed." Watson sucked in a horrified breath; Lestrade's and Gregson's eyes widened. "Mr. Mycroft Holmes has already been called in to identify the corpse, but, Doctor, I… would like you there as well. It may be that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has acquired some identifying features of which his brother may be ignorant."

Watson traded a glance with Lestrade, who knew well what the Doctor was thinking. "Holmes has scars from two bullet wounds. I… am not certain his brother would know it." The army veteran faltered. "Inspector, forgive my bluntness, but how much resemblance does this man bear to _you_?"

Patterson appraised the man sombrely. "Quite a remarkable resemblance, Doctor."

Lestrade felt his heart sink at the words, and felt it plummet even further at Watson's pained expression. Then the tanned face hardened. Most times, John Watson was the most purposefully unguarded fellow one would ever meet—and then there were the times that his instincts returned him to the battlefield. A soldier's detachment would certainly serve him well for whatever he was about to face.

"Lead the way, Inspector," Watson said quietly.

Patterson nodded gravely and stepped back out of the office. Watson followed, then cast a glance back over his shoulder.

"Go on, Doctor," Lestrade said gently. "We'll wait here."

Relief that he would not have an over-large audience suffused Watson's features, and he gave a brief nod before leaving with Patterson. Lestrade glanced at Gregson and cocked an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"What," the man practically growled.

"Come off it, Tobias—you look like a thunderhead about to erupt."

"_Volcanoes_ erupt, Ferret Face. Thunderheads _burst_."

Lestrade scowled. "What's going on in that bright head of yours, other than the incessant need to demonstrate your superior knowledge?"

Gregson glared at the open doorway and shoved his hands into his pockets. "We all thought _Holmes_ was bad."

"He _was_—is. Patterson just _seems_ worse because he's one of us."

"He's too much like Baynes."

"Agreed."

"He could have had enough consideration for the poor Doctor to make his announcement less abruptly."

"True."

"_Geoffrey_. You're agreeing with me."

"Well, you're right."

Gregson stared at Lestrade. "Are you heaping coals of fire?"

Lestrade cocked his head and pretended to think about it. "No, but the idea has merit." He dropped all pretence of levity then, feeling guilt for his flippancy, and shook his head. "That had better not be Sherlock Holmes we have down there, or there _will_ be hell to pay."

"Mm," Gregson said solemnly.

* * *

><p>In any other situation, Watson would have been fascinated by the amazing resemblance Patterson bore to Holmes, and his thoughts would have been preoccupied with it. But with each step he took towards the mortuary, his stomach twisted further. His heart slammed incessantly against his ribcage. He could hardly breathe.<p>

He feared what he would see in the mortuary.

He did not _want_ to see it. That would make the thing all too real, if it was true that Holmes… that Holmes… if he…

Oh, dear Heaven.

At least, without a body, he could _hope_, however desperate that hope would be. And even if the poor soul was not Holmes, it was no guarantee that Watson wouldn't be identifying Holmes's broken corpse at the end of all this.

He quickly shied away from that notion. It was unthinkable. He couldn't begin to try imagining a world without Sherlock Holmes, without the man's genius and talent and authority and passion for justice… His abrupt laugh, his lightning-swift smile, his surprisingly gentle touch, his bright grey eyes, his soulful music…

He couldn't help remembering their last words to each other, his entreaty to be careful and Holmes's salute, coupled with "Always, Watson." Holmes never meant to be kidnapped, never meant to be wounded or infected or k—

_Stop_, he commanded himself, schooling his features back into the impassivity that had served him well on the battlefield. But… not even Sherlock Holmes could control all outcomes. And he was never careful with his health and wellbeing. Ever.

Patterson opened the door down to New Scotland Yard's mortuary.

This place, as every other part of the building, was in upheaval thanks to the move. But Patterson never faltered, cutting a steady path through the chaos to the proper table. Watson would have known where to go had he not had a guide—the large, imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes was unmistakeable. The big man said no word of greeting, merely nodded at Watson, who could not speak if he had wanted to do so.

"Sirs," Patterson said quietly.

Watson glanced at Mycroft, silently requesting permission. He didn't want to pull back the sheet, but, conversely, he did not want to see someone else do it. Mycroft merely bowed his head.

Watson turned to the table, stared at the bloodstained white sheet covering a form that was certainly long enough to be his dearest friend. His already-constricted chest squeezed further, and his mouth went dry. He slowly drew air into his lungs, closed his eyes, and just as slowly let it out. Bracing himself, he opened his eyes and reached a trembling hand out to grab the sheet.

The sheet rolled back slowly, revealing blood-matted black hair, paper-white skin…

He jerked the sheet completely off the face.

Heard a sharp intake of breath.

Found himself kneeling on the floor, clutching the sheet. Coherent thought spun and danced and refused to allow him to take hold, and the strangled noises that reached his ears were muffled and distant. He could only stare at that face, those elegant, aquiline features, so familiar though twisted in horror…

Absurdly, he found himself expecting the man to spring up and startle them all, laughing and explaining to them his clever means of escaping his captors' clutches.

It didn't happen.

The eyes remained closed, the chest still, the skin bloodless.

Lifeless.

Lifeless because… because _he_ wouldn't allow anyone to help him unless he wished it, had to go out alone, had to risk his safety, wouldn't let Watson help him, and now he was gone, gone, _gone_, and _oh, dear God in Heaven, _help_ him_…

Hot liquid smeared his face. He tasted it and realised it was tears, realised that the strangled noises were coming from _him_, were sobs, and he was breaking down before two other men, but, Heaven help him, he didn't _care_. What did composure matter when you were staring at your dearest friend laid out before you, dead, dead, _dead_…

Large hands came up beneath his arms and hefted him up before turning him round, and he found himself pulled into a strong embrace. It was Mycroft. Watson pulled away and stared at the man past a veil of soul-numbing grief.

One lone tear trickled its way down the elder _(only)_ Holmes's cheek, and Watson knew with devastating certainty that Mycroft was convinced.

In that moment, desperation flared to life with blinding intensity. This was _not_ Sherlock Holmes. It was not. It was not. It was _not_.

Watson's hands flew to the table before the rest of his mind caught up with him. A small mole near the chin on the left… present. He jerked the sheet down further, forcing his gaze away from the torn-up throat, the livid marks of torture, the gaping red mess of the chest where the heart must have been carved out…

Bile rose in his throat.

Faint scar from Joseph Harrison's knife on the left hand… it was there—as were innumerable puncture marks from a hypodermic needle on the forearm. An oceanic roar filled his ears, leaving him dizzy and unbalanced as he bent low over the torso. Those two bullet wounds—one in the left side from when Holmes had been four-and-twenty years of age, the other in the right, two inches from the lung…

His heart stopped.

The scars were there.

This… this was not a cleverly planted impostor.

This was Sherlock Holmes, and he was dead. Tortured, murdered, and then tossed aside like so much refuse. The world's brightest light, snuffed out.

The genius, the talent, the authority, the passion for justice were gone. The abrupt laugh, the lightning-swift smile, the gentle touch, the bright grey eyes, the soulful music…

They all were dead.

* * *

><p>Mary heard the cab horses clop to a stop before the house—odd, John had told her he would be out all day. She waited, but she did not hear the front door open, though she did hear the cab leave.<p>

After half a minute, she frowned and peeked out the window. John stood slumped against the door, staring up at the iron-grey sky. She could not see his face clearly, but she did not have to do so to know that something was terribly wrong.

She hurried to the door, knocked on it, heard the rustle of movement beyond that was John straightening up. She opened the door… and swallowed hard as her eyes met his. His eyes had turned dark brown and bloodshot, the skin around them puffy from tears. More than that, though, his eyes were so chillingly empty, as if the soul had fled the body.

He was staring straight through her.

She reached up to caress his cheek and caught her hand trembling. "John? _John_." His eyes gradually sharpened and focused on her.

"Mary."

His voice sounded as empty as his eyes had looked. She shivered as she drew him into the house, then wrapped her arms around him, greatcoat and all. "He is dead," she whispered.

He did not start, did not ask her how she knew—he did not have to ask. "Yes," he whispered, shutting his eyes. "He… oh, God…"

"Let the tears come, darling," she whispered back, feeling her own eyes water. The world was cruel, she well knew, but for it to take the life of one of the best men she'd ever known…

He held her close, and they wept together.

* * *

><p>He is a government official, though he holds no official title. He is a civil servant. He is a country squire's son who chose not to return to a burnt shell of a family manor to take up his father's role. He is one of the most brilliant men in England, if not the whole of the British Empire. He very nearly <em>is<em> the British Empire.

He is also a brother—rather, he is brother _and_ father, for he raised his younger brother as much as his mother did. As much as the young one irritates and even angers him at times, he loves his brother deeply. They are two of a kind, and they understand one another whereas most of the world does not.

But now… now he is _one_ of a kind. Just one. Just one because the other has slipped into eternity.

Mycroft Tristan Holmes is not a demonstrative man. The tear and the embrace in the mortuary are the most emotion he has shown before anyone other than his brother in many years. Cold is the man who cannot spare some force of feeling for his only close kin, for the person dearest to him in the world. And so Mycroft allowed the tear and the embrace. For Sherlock, he could do no less.

Like the poor Doctor, he had entertained hopes of the corpse being someone else's—a decoy, perhaps. But those hopes were brutally shattered when the withdrawn sheet revealed the oh-so-familiar face, and Watson found means of identification that Mycroft had not known existed. Sherlock is dead.

Sherlock is dead.

He remembers the day his brother was born—with his eidetic memory, he recalls it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. He regarded it as an investigation on his part, to determine from where, exactly, infants come. He managed to evade his nanny and to eavesdrop on the birthing process from the other room. Mother's cries frightened him, for Mother did not scream or cry. Mother was strong. And why was it bad that Sherlock was coming out feet-first?

He remembers how incredibly small and fragile Sherlock appeared, as if one touch could crush him beyond repair. He remembers the little one's growth into a tall and strong young man, in stature and in spirit.

Larger than life.

But even those larger than life can topple down from their pedestals, whether through corruption or through destruction.

His head starts to throb in time with the ache in his chest as he mechanically makes his way back to his office. Sherlock is dead. There is much to do.

He collapses into the chair behind his desk and holds his head in his hands, wishing that he could weep as John Watson had. But that lone tear is all that will fall. He has never been a demonstrative man.

But…

But the ache in his heart is so much more painful than tears.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

*ducks thrown produce* No death threats, please! Ahem. The story is far from over yet—this _is_ novel-length, after all!

It occurs to me that the dialogue is getting… _riper_… as the story progresses. *shrugs* Hey, _I_ don't use that kind of language, so… Just being realistic without going overboard.

Oh, and remember what I said about a murderer going in for sensational in the previous chapter's A/N? Heh-heh… Hey, I didn't exactly appreciate writing this whole chapter. In fact, it was _rewritten_ several times before I came at last to a satisfactory draft (i.e. today). Have you ever tried describing a corpse in-depth? Sheesh, you can't get detailed _enough_. *sighs*

I _did_ enjoy doing more Lestrade/Gregson banter. Originally, Gregson said, "Are you trying to give me cardiac arrest?" My brother read that and pointed out that it sounded anachronistic. I conceded the point and replaced it with "coals of fire."

I hope Watson's reaction worked. I dearly hope it worked. It was simultaneously easy and difficult—easy, because the words tended to just form themselves on the page, but difficult because I was trying so desperately to stay true to Watson. (Mary, too, for that matter. *gulps*)

With Mycroft, I'm less concerned. With Mycroft, I'm satisfied.

Next up… well, there's really nothing that I can give away, but I kind of think I don't have to. I have a feeling that you guys will show up next time to see what happens. =) I will say that I might be updating more often for the next couple of weeks, just because I don't know how the rest of my month is looking Internet-access-wise.

_**Please review!**_


	13. 12: Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

Early as promised! And, wow, only one death-threat! =)

(For the record, I wonder if something in the identification scene caught any Granada fan's eye? Like, maybe the fact that Holmes has a mole on his chin, hmm? …Yes, that's a deliberate nod to Jeremy Brett.)

While actually writing this chapter, I agonized over how soon I really wanted to move events forward in this particular way… I realized that I didn't have any other material to fill in the blanks and decided to go Onwards and Upwards! ^_^

**To my reviewers:**

fayfayzee: *whistles innocently*

MadameGiry25: I know what you mean about Patterson adding something to the story and not being able to pin it down—I have the same feeling. Ah, if the work is truly great, the author never fully comprehends it, right? =D Okay, I have to admit it: it was _your_ comment about the Whitechapel murders in your last review that brought on its reappearance in chapter 11, so thank you! =) You made me realize that I could do more with the thing. Oooo, you listened to "Order 66"? That was probably the best fit for the scene… Aww. *hands over tissues* That made me happy, though, that paragraph—mission accomplished! I'm certainly determined not to pull my punches, so… yeah, I suppose I'm going in for reader!torture as much character!torture. *weak grin* Oh, writing the Watsons was _beyond_ difficult, believe me. In fact, the scene when he comes home I rewrote just before posting—I can't tell how scared-stiff I was about the whole thing. So I'm very relieved to hear you say that it went well. Heh, _I_ needed to _write_ the Lestrade/Gregson scene as much as everyone needed to read it! It was a very-much-necessary bit of winding-down before we all wound back up. (Btw, this chapter is another rather short one; if you can think of any way in which it could be elongated—yes, like digging into heads more deeply—I'd be very much obliged!) Thank you so much for everything!

Historian1912: What can I say? It was a perfect chapter break! =) Ah, don't worry, it'll be finished—and yes, you're insane, and yes, I'm sadistic (and yes, I'm also insane ^_^). When it comes to fan-writing, Sherlock Holmes stands in class by itself, because nothing else really compares to it. As one Sherlockian famously said long ago: "Never has so much been written by so many for so few." Ha-ha, thank you! Don't worry, I'll get this book and its sequels through a traditional publisher if it kills me (and it very well may ;D). I used "clew" deliberately, as an old spelling of "clue"… but I will double-check its usage. And… WOO-HOO, yay for becoming a major fan of Sherlock Holmes! Welcome, dear chap, to the wonderful world of Sherlockiana! And, oh boy, Jeremy Brett! I'm sure you'll enjoy him—he just brings so much to his performance that no one else has ever been able to equal! (I hope you got first-season episodes on your queue, though, 'cause those are some of the best!) Thanks for everything!

ghost117: Thank you very much! *grins* Heh, I don't have to think—my answer is already written out!

VHunter07: Umm… would you still go through with your plan of utterly destroying me if I told you that the first two paragraphs made me, um… grin? *hurtles into Beth Lestrade's police cruiser* Lestrade, full speed ahead! Very relieved that you, like MadameGiry25, think that John and Mary were good—as I said above, those scenes were _beyond_ difficult. I think that writing AMM was a fantastic journey in getting to know and be comfortable with Holmes, and writing him doesn't scare me anymore. BUT. Writing Watson scares me to death half the time—I have more bloody difficulty with the more _normal_ half of the partnership! *sighs* Glad that you enjoyed the Mycroft scene, too! I love him to pieces, especially since meeting Mark Gatiss's version in _Sherlock_ (which, it must be said, is partially my inspiration for writing the canonical version of the man). So glad that you checked out and enjoyed all my little SH22 fics! I'll get back with you later on all those lovely little reviews. =) Thanks very much for ev'rthin', darlin'! *hugs* (Oh, and let me know if you find that drawing, lol!)

Linn: Thank you!

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter XII==<strong>

**Best-Laid Plans**

The news did not circulate through New Scotland Yard. The members of the London Metropolitan could not say _why_ Dr. Watson should be so overcome by grief, could only watch with silent sympathy as Sherlock Holmes (or so they thought the man) propelled the good Doctor through the building. They did not see the tall, dark man enter Inspector Lestrade's office, and they did not hear his quiet pronouncement.

"Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson have positively identified the body as Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade stared at Patterson, not certain that he'd heard correctly. Gregson, evidently, was of the same opinion. "I beg your pardon?" the larger man said.

Patterson's lips compressed briefly. "The corpse my informants discovered. It is that of Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade distantly heard Gregson swear, distantly felt himself fall back and collide with his chair. It didn't even hurt, that collision, as he staggered back to his feet, discovered that the room was swimming around him, and gripped the desk to anchor himself.

"Good heavens, man, steady!"

The barked order pulled the world back into tight focus, and Lestrade blinked and shook his head slowly. "'M all 'ight," he mumbled. But he wasn't, because he couldn't shake from his head a vision of quicksilver eyes, a flash of a smile, an aristocratic eyebrow, a barked laugh.

He'd known Sherlock Holmes for thirteen years. He was not all right.

"Steady on, old fellow," Gregson said softly, gripping Lestrade's shoulder. The bigger man turned a fiery scowl on Patterson. "You didn't warn us."

Patterson's expression remained blank.

"Mycroft Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade and I. You had to have known almost beyond a shadow of a doubt that the corpse was Sherlock Holmes, and _you didn't warn us_."

"I _said_, 'Quite a remarkable resemblance,'" Patterson returned coldly. "You do not consider that a warning?"

"Not bloody good enough," Gregson growled.

"I was not certain."

"You weren't certain," a bitter facsimile of Gregson's voice repeated.

"Would it have been better if I'd told Mycroft Holmes and Dr. Watson that Sherlock Holmes was indeed lying in our mortuary?"

Anger, hot and swift, burst forth and flooded Lestrade's numbed mind and body. "You knew it was probable that Sherlock Holmes was dead," he snarled, "and you allowed them to hope by being _uncertain?_ _ My god_, man, have you no compassion?"

Patterson lifted his chin and fixed his steely blue eyes upon the smaller detective. "I told them what they needed to know. It was just possible that we had a very clever decoy corpse."

"Just possible," Lestrade echoed derisively. "Patterson, do us all a favour and stop being so cold-blooded. I'd hate for someone to be arrested for homicide because they were driven to murder you."

Gregson snorted.

One dark eyebrow _a la_ Patterson shot up. "Someone, or yourself?"

Lestrade met his gaze fiercely. "Deduce that for yourself, Patterson."

Gregson cleared his throat and stepped forward to come halfway between the two dark-haired detectives. "Gentlemen, please," he said, just a shade below stern. That tended to be the chemistry between him and Lestrade: when one got himself worked up, the other stepped in—sometimes switching places in the same conversation, as now. "Much as I'd love to continue to castigate Patterson with you, Lestrade, I think we have more important matters on our hands."

Lestrade bowed his head, nodding slowly. "I can't believe he's… that Mr. Holmes… dear God, I can't even say it." He found his chair, righted it, and sank into it, paying no attention to Gregson and Patterson as they continued the conversation above him. He shouldn't feel as if a close friend had just died—he wasn't even friends with that infuriating amateur.

So why did his chest ache so viciously?

The next of kin was already all too aware of the tragedy—he wondered briefly what plans Mycroft Holmes had for press releases and for his brother's burial. The poor Doctor knew, so Mrs. Watson would also know. Mrs. Hudson had to be informed—this would break the good woman's heart, so fond was she of her capricious tenant. Was there anyone else who needed to know?

Wiggins.

Good god, the boy was the closest thing Sherlock Holmes ever had to a son, and Holmes the closest thing the boy had to a father. Davy would be devastated.

Lestrade pulled himself to his feet and reached for his bowler, all but smashing it onto his head. "I am going to find Wiggins," he interjected into the taller men's discussion. "He'll find out sooner or later, and I'd rather he learns it from a friend."

The other eyebrow _a la_ Patterson joined its counterpart, and a strange look flitted across Gregson's face. Lestrade knew the reactions were at the implication that he and Wiggins were friends. Well, when it came right down to it, the relationship was closer than an acquaintance. So, yes, Lestrade supposed that he and the Irregular were indeed friends.

The Irregulars. Holmes had been a father to each and every one of those ragamuffins as much as he'd been to their leader. Lestrade had seen it. They would all be devastated.

He had his hand on the doorknob when Patterson's voice halted him. "Lestrade. What if, by some miracle, that _is_ a decoy corpse we have down there?"

Lestrade did not leave, yet neither did he turn back, not even to see Gregson's silent reaction. "You said yourself that it would make more sense for Moriarty simply to kill Sherlock Holmes and have done with it." The ice in his voice surprised even him.

"And Wiggins also reasoned that Moriarty would not go that far."

"The identifying marks were there if Watson positively identified it—the mole, the scars…"

"All of which can be faked. All of which _I have seen faked_."

Gregson swore again, this time tiredly. Lestrade released a shuddering breath and turned back to his colleagues. "Are you saying that a decoy may have been planted to make us close the case?" he demanded.

"If you were a criminal mastermind, what would _you_ do?"

"As Sherlock Holmes could tell you, I have a hard enough time keeping up with amateur geniuses, let alone thinking like a criminal mastermind," Lestrade returned without rancour.

Gregson gave a brief smile that did not reach his blue eyes before turning back to Patterson. "What are your plans, Patterson?"

"We stay on the case, covertly. Wiggins continues to investigate while we attend to other cases—I'll hire the boy myself."

"And Watson and Mycroft?"

Patterson hesitated. "Lestrade, Gregson… I am not a cruel man, whatever you may think of me. If it turns out that the younger Holmes truly _is_ dead…"

"Say no more," Lestrade said wearily. He did not want to face that probability yet. He mayn't have been close to the amateur, but… he'd known the man longer than _Watson_ had. He'd been looking out for Sherlock Holmes for a long time—genius could be a fragile thing. "I'll warn Wiggins to keep mum for now. Afternoon."

As Lestrade exited New Scotland Yard, he glanced up at the clouds scurrying over the sun and prayed as he had not prayed in a long time. Sherlock Holmes couldn't be dead. God would not take him from them when they needed him most.

* * *

><p>Mary woke as the sun was setting, but she did not move. She was lying on the sofa with John sprawled half over her—and, thanks to his army days, her husband was a light sleeper.<p>

She carefully smoothed damp hair away from his clammy brow and pressed a kiss to it. She wanted to weep again, but her tears were all used up at present. She and John had mourned together for what seemed an eternity before at last falling prey to Morpheus. Even now, it was difficult to accept the fact that Sherlock was well and truly dead. One so full of life, so very special… so full of love. She'd seen it.

Sherlock had been full of love—he'd simply managed to hide it better than most people could. His affection was—had been—quiet, but fierce and unending. He had opened his heart wide enough to allow her inside, and she had never thanked him enough for that privilege.

She had never known her mother. She could scarcely remember her father. The Forresters had been all the family she'd ever really known until she'd met John. And, during their courtship, she had struggled to break down the barrier Sherlock had thrown up between himself and her. Her beloved regarded this man as his dearest friend, and that alone was worth trying to make friends with Sherlock. More than that, however, Sherlock was a man _worth_ befriending on his own merits.

"_Mr. Holmes, please understand," she said quietly. "I do not wish to see your friendship dissolved, either. It is a powerful thing—a rare thing. I would not willingly damage it."_

_He remained silent, not meeting her gaze._

"_I have no family left and neither has John… except for you. You are all that he has, and, by that, I count you as family."_

_He turned to her then, slowly._

"_You have been a better brother to him in the past several years since his return to England than his own brother was," she continued firmly. "_That_ is the nature of your friendship, and _that_, I believe, cannot change."_

_She could just see the corners of his lips upturn in the faint moonlight. "Thank you, Mrs. Watson," he said quietly, looking down._

"_Mary," she corrected, and that startled him into looking back up at her. She smiled. "My name is Mary, and you have my permission to use it."_

_He chuckled slightly. "Fair is fair. Sherlock."_

_He extended his hand, and she shook it decisively, her lips firm but her eyes shining. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock."_

_A rather musical laugh bubbled up out of him. "The pleasure is all mine, Mary."_

That conversation, held upon the night of her wedding, had opened the door to genuine friendship. She treated him as a brother; he treated her as a sister.

She had lost so many she loved or might have loved. Her parents, her own children… and now her brother. It left a fresh, throbbing ache in her chest.

John stirred then, opened his eyes, looked up at her. "Mary, what…" She saw memory return with consciousness, and the ache gave a sharp spasm. His hazel eyes looked dark and empty, as they had after the death of their daughter.

"Will you take tea, darling?" she murmured.

He was staring right through her once again…

"_John_."

…and he returned to himself with a shudder. "Forgive me, love," he whispered hoarsely. "Tea?"

She took his right hand in both of hers, squeezing it and pressing it to her lips, just to reassure her that her beloved was still alive. She had never seen her husband look so empty before, and it frightened her. "Yes."

He nodded wearily as he pushed himself off the sofa with a groan at his stiff limbs.

"And then to bed with you," she continued. He blanched, and she knew why. Memories would haunt him tonight, memories and nightmares. She had never before felt so helpless.

* * *

><p>At the corner of Vere Street and Oxford Street, a young gentleman lounged against a lamppost. Casually, he withdrew his cigarette case from his frockcoat, but, when he fished out his matchbox, it was empty.<p>

"Allow me." Another gentleman appeared and lit a match, holding it up for the young man's cigarette.

"Much obliged," the young man nodded. "Fine evening, is it not?"

"Quite so." The older gentleman put away his matchbox after lighting his own cigarette and shoved his free hand into his pocket, for all intents and purposes, joining the younger man in loitering. But by the time the constable on this beat passed, they would both be gone.

"I've been looking for a chap," the younger man murmured. "Tall, thin, dark, pale… Can't seem to find him, though."

"Really?" the older man drawled diffidently.

The younger man nodded again. "I fear he may have gotten himself into a bit of trouble. His friends can't find him, either. Just disappeared, like that." He snapped his fingers.

"I don't suppose the fellow is… departed?"

"Do you know, that thought had occurred to me, but I don't think it likely. If I'm right, it may be someone else they're after, trying to get at this person through him. Might be. Could also be information they want."

"Have you any suspicions?"

"I may. My friend has also angered someone high and mighty. Not a royal, mind you, but close, I think."

"I see. I don't suppose you could tell me any more? Perhaps I could help you search."

The young man shook his head. "No, no, I shall find him. It may simply take some time."

The older man nodded, turned away, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Might this friend's name be… Porlock?"

The young man started infinitesimally and stared at his companion. A smile crept across his handsome features. "It might at that. Do give my regards to John, eh? Good evening."

Daniel Patterson watched the other man saunter off. Yes, he'd give Dr. Watson their informant's regards. The Honourable William Fitzgerald, alias Fred Porlock, was indeed a good man—Patterson was quite curious as to how Moriarty had drawn boy into his fold. The plainclothes detective strode south along New Bond Street, nodding cordially to the constable on-duty.

So, kidnapping Holmes had not been Moriarty's idea. _Not a royal, but close_, the lad said. Moran, then? How had Moriarty taken the news of Sherlock Holmes being in his own gaol? And was Fitzgerald correct in his belief that Holmes was alive yet? The lad seemed to think they were trying to get his own identity from Holmes—Patterson would not be surprised if they were. Thus, Holmes was being tortured.

Patterson's left (and dominant) hand crept down to rub his left leg. Very few knew that he even had a game leg, and fewer still knew _why_. Patterson was not what one would call a man of compassion, but even he would not like to see his amateur colleague damaged that way.

Fitzgerald had to find Holmes, and quickly. Patterson had personally witnessed what Moriarty's men could do to those in their power, and it was unspeakable. No one deserved that kind of torment, least of all Sherlock Edward Holmes.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

*dry Holmes-ish look* Am I absolved yet? ;-)

I realize, to my dismay, that my uploads are starting to catch up with my writing progress! This must be rectified! I NEED A MORE CONDUCIVE SETTING! *sob-sniff-sob* I also still need to catch up with my online course… *sighs*

Lessee… methinks, for your sakes, I'll update Saturday. Sound good? Next up is Wiggins and John & Mary Watson! Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	14. 13: A Conspiracy of Heroes

**Author's Note:**

After today, can't say when I can update again. Regardless of Internet access, I have to see if I can add a subplot to chappies 14 and 15, and 16 still needs largely to be written. I also think that, in the published version, there's going to be some extra material in the chapters you've already read: namely, the families of the Scotland Yarders. We see quite a bit of Watson's home life, but nothing of the Yarders', and that's not right. Anybody who's read the AMM e-book knows that Lestrade, Gregson, and Bradstreet, at least, have wives and children—and Hopkins and Jones at least have siblings. So, after finishing the first draft of the manuscript, I'm going to go back and see if I can work in some mentions of family and maybe a home scene or two.

Something for you to look forward to in the published version, yes? ;D

As I upload this book, I'm coming to be more and more aware of how often fog and cloudy skies appear in this story. Well, hey, this is late-1800s _London_, and it _is_ October/November/December. And I think the gloom and chill of the weather fits well with the overall mood of the book. =)

Btw, thank you to everyone who has favorited! =) Makes me so happy.

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: Hmm… I'd like to get back with you in PM (once I have the time =P) on the "dig into Lestrade's head bit." I think I can see what you're saying, but I'd like to make sure, etc. etc. Glad you liked the homicide line—I'd had that line in my head before I even wrote the chapter, and I just _had_ to use it. ^_^ And good point about Lestrade and the Irregulars—will work on that. Maaan, I would _not_ want to be the one to tell all those boys that their father—and I firmly believe that Holmes _is_ that to them—has died. I'd want even less to be the one to try to control the fallout, for it would surely be one of nuclear proportions. A hug from Mary would be good, thanks—I did realize that the end of the scene was lacking, but I couldn't figure it out. And, ha, _I_ couldn't let myself get away with killing Sherlock—I loves him too much! *hugs him* Thanks for everything!

ghost117: Well, I could have continued the story with a quest on Watson's part for justice/revenge, but it certainly would not have been the same. Thank you!

fayfayzee: Mm, I don't think you need plastic surgery exactly to alter a person's appearance, but, if the person already shares some characteristics, it does aid the process. You'll find out, though I warn you that it'll be sad. One of the many tragedies of war in whatever form it takes is that the innocent always, _always_ get hurt.

Peaceful Defender: Ooo, gotta love those accidental finds! =D Thank you very much! It's true that I can't answer all your questions yet (most of them should be answered sooner or later), but I would like to argue that a decoy corpse wasn't entirely a bad move on the criminals' part. There are some miscalculations made due to insufficient data, and those miscalculations serve to give Watson, Wiggins, and the Yard an edge on this round. BUT. This is only Round One in the game. ^_^ Thanks again!

James Birdsong: Thank you!

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter XIII==<strong>

**A Conspiracy of Heroes**

PORLOCK

MUST MEET YOU IN PERSON STOP FULL DETAILS UPON ACCEPTANCE FINAL STOP

_WIGGINS_

WIGGINS

I ACCEPT FINAL STOP

_PORLOCK_

The Goose and Gander was a tired old tavern in an ill-reputed part of London, and typical of such establishments. Wiggins looked at the chairs set around the corner table he wanted and wondered if any of those chairs would hold even his meagre weight. Deciding to risk it, he lowered himself onto one, slowly.

Miraculously, the chair held. He sat stiffly, though, not wanting to tempt fate by leaning back.

A brown-clad figure cut through the murky atmosphere in his direction. Late twenties at the oldest, brown hair, eye colour undetermined in the dim lighting, 5'10", fairly unremarkable features. Wiggins raised a hand and motioned him over, then dug out his cigarettes and matches. "Hallo," he drawled, offering the man a cigarette. "Key to Birlstone?"

The man smiled thinly as he accepted the cigarette. "_Whitaker's Almanac_. David Wiggins, a pleasure to meet you at last." He extended his hand; Wiggins shook it.

"Good to meet you, Mr. Porlock. Please, have a seat." Porlock eyed the chairs dubiously, and Wiggins smirked. "My sentiments exactly, but they appear to be sturdier than they look."

The other man shook his head and sat. "Now, Wiggins, what can I do for you that could not be accomplished between wires?"

"I think we're past that point," Wiggins said sharply. "A corpse at New Scotland Yard has been identified as Sherlock Holmes, but _I've_ been hired privately to find the man, anyway. My employer thinks he's still alive. You're searching for him, yes?"

Porlock's eyes—green, Wiggins thought, though he could not be certain—had narrowed. "I am."

Wiggins nodded briskly. "Very good. I shall be working with you, then."

"As shall I," cut in a familiar voice, and both men started. A broad-shouldered figure detached itself from the shadows—Wiggins berated himself for not paying closer attention, a potentially fatal error.

"Doctor!"

John Watson, clad in worn dark clothes, settled himself at the table and folded his hands atop it. "Don't look so surprised, Wig. I haven't been Sherlock Holmes's closest friend all these years and not learned a few things."

"But why—how…" Wiggins faltered beneath the hard glitter in Watson's dark eyes.

"I mourned him," the Doctor said quietly. "I mourned him for three days, and, on that third day, I maintained my composure long enough to peruse some of my case-notes." He paused, swallowed, and continued. "I came across a singular affair from the Spring of '84: a man went missing for several days before his corpse turning up."

It was Wiggins's turn to swallow. "And?"

"_And_, due to the family's insistence that Holmes look into the matter, we found and rescued the man. The corpse had been a decoy, but so painstakingly designed that the wife was prepared to swear to it. At the time, Holmes remarked that there was no depth to which humanity could not sink, murdering a man simply to take the place of another." Watson's shadowed features hardened. "It then occurred to me that a mastermind such as the one we deal with now would certainly have the resources at his disposal to make a man appear identical to a distinctive-looking man like Sherlock Holmes, right down to the man's scars."

Wiggins bowed his head, unable to meet the man's gaze any longer. "That's what my employer was thinking. I'm sorry—I would've told you, but I was ordered not to. If that _is_ Sherlock Holmes in the mortuary, it'd be like… like…"

"Like mourning him twice," Watson finished softly, his expression softening with his voice. "Lad, I don't hold it against you."

"But how did you come to be here?" said Porlock with the barest hint of impatience. "And, if I may say, dressed for the part?"

Watson smiled humourlessly. "As I said, I have not been Holmes's closest friend without learning a few things. I wished to appear as inconspicuous as possible in the event that I was to do any sort of reconnaissance tonight. I had planned to visit Wiggins and discuss my hypothesis with him, but, when I observed him leaving his house and taking care to stick to the shadows, I decided to tail him." He cast a glance at Wiggins that was equally parts apologetic and amused. "Sorry, my boy—my curiosity was aroused."

Wiggins shook his head. "Cor blimey. I never noticed you, and I was looking."

Watson shrugged his good shoulder, but his eyes sparkled briefly in the dim light. "Then it appears that my skills at concealment have indeed improved since my last foray into such business."

"Yes, well," Porlock began, "as impressed as I am, Doctor, and as much as you have my sincerest sympathy, I cannot allow you to join me in my search. To begin with, I can't be constantly searching—I do have employment within that charming organisation, and I shall be in more trouble than you can imagine if I get slack in my work." Wiggins and Watson opened their mouths at the same time; Porlock stopped them with a raised hand. "I understand that you two want to do everything in your power to find Mr. Holmes, but how _do_ you propose to go about this? Infiltrate _his_ organisation? You'll have a nice time of it, getting in and getting high enough quickly enough to snoop around properly."

Watson leaned forward, his thick brows drawing together—Wiggins recognised the look as the one that usually won out over Mr. Holmes's wishes. "Porlock," the Doctor said slowly, deliberately, "there is no use in arguing the point. I _shall_ search for Holmes. Whether you help me or not is your choice, but you shan't stop me—you have my word on that."

"I'm with the Doctor," Wiggins added quietly.

Porlock looked between the two of them, muttering, "Saints preserve us." He sighed. "Gentlemen, understand _this_. Once you enter the Underworld, you're committed. There shall be no turning back, not until you have Holmes back in Baker Street or else have died in the attempt." He turned a hard gaze upon them both. "Doctor, you have a wife. I suggest you say your goodbyes—you could be gone for a very long time. Wiggins, if you have a family, I suggest you do the same."

Wiggins forgot his mistrust of his chair and leaned back. "I said I'd search for Mr. Holmes, and I mean to stick to that," he said firmly.

Watson almost appeared to be carved from stone, and, for a long moment, he was silent. Then: "I gave my word, and there's an end."

Porlock nodded slowly. "Very well, then," he said with chilling finality, as if he was a commanding officer sending his troops out to certain death.

Perhaps that analogy was not far from the truth.

They discussed and debated and planned long into the night. New identities and appearances were created and developed. Schemes for ingratiating private detective and general practitioner into London's great criminal empire were concocted. Methods of communication with each other, Patterson, and Lestrade were drafted, discarded, and redrafted.

At the end of it, Wiggins and Watson were exhausted but satisfied. Porlock melted back into the shadows from which he'd appeared, and the other men returned home for two days to put their affairs in order. The first blush of dawn was tinting the sky above as Wiggins parted ways with Watson. "Good morning, Doctor," he murmured.

"Good morning, Wig," Watson murmured back, looking tired but incredibly _alive_. More so than he'd looked in months, perhaps since before that stillbirth.

Wiggins shoved his hands into his pockets and began the long trek home. He had much explaining to do to his family.

* * *

><p>Mary, John was exasperated to see, had not gone to bed that night. "<em>Mary<em>," he chided as he entered the sitting room and sank onto the sofa.

She abandoned her sewing to the rocking chair, glided over, and settled beside him, draping one willowy arm around his shoulders. "I know, Doctor, but I could not sleep."

"Love, you shall have to learn to sleep without me again," he whispered, clasping his hands around her slim waist. He rested his chin in the hollow of her shoulder and breathed her lilac scent in deeply, committing every nuance of his wife to memory. In two short days, he would not see her again for Heaven knew how long.

He felt as if he were gone already.

She stiffened fractionally within his hold. "What do you mean?"

"Mary, I am going to find Holmes."

She jerked around to face him. "Darling, he's…"

"That might not be him."

Her brows drew together with concern. "You were thoroughly convinced."

"And the enemy we face is certainly clever enough to duplicate Holmes's appearance in another man."

He felt her release a shuddering breath. "Love… are you certain?"

He shook his head—he could not be certain until he found Holmes, worse for wear but _alive_. "Not entirely, but, Mary…" His hazel gaze met her blue one. "_I must try_."

She nodded, a bit numbly. "You shall be gone, then."

"Yes. For how long, I cannot say."

She grasped his hands and squeezed him with a strength few people would have attributed to her. He, of course, knew better. "I shall be all right, John," she said in a husky but determined tone. "Go find him, and Godspeed."

He lifted her left hand to his lips. "What have I ever done to deserve such a wife?" he whispered.

She tilted her head back to rest against his good shoulder. "Dearest, Mr. Holmes is right—you habitually underrate yourself."

Once, that would have elicited a laugh; now, he smiled sadly and kissed her cheek. "I shall miss you so."

"And I you. But," she said in that resolute voice, "if soldiers' wives and policemen's wives can endure separation, I can do no less. I expect I shall be spending a fair amount of time with Mrs. Lestrade."

John shook his head. "By no means. As long as I am away, you shall be staying with Mrs. Forrester."

"John!"

"You have a standing invitation to your old home—I suggest we make full use of it now. I'll not have you alone but for the maid and the pageboy whilst I am away."

Mary turned away and went very still, giving John no inkling of what ran through her mind. After a full minute, she spoke, almost inaudibly. "You do not expect to return for a very long time."

"Mary," he said as gently as he could, "I may not return at all."

She bowed her head, still facing away.

"Darling, you knew this day might come when you married me."

She nodded. "Yes." She turned then and buried her face into his chest. "I can't make you promise to return," she said, voice muffled, "but promise me that you'll do all in your power to come back to me."

"Dearest," he murmured, pressing his cheek to her soft hair and clasping her to him, wanting never to let go, "I promised that the moment I knew I loved you."

* * *

><p>Davy Wiggins was the eldest of six in his family—the other children were Peter, a year and a half his junior; Abigail, nearly eighteen and a housemaid; Andrew, sixteen, another Baker Street Irregular; and Faith and Charity, twins at fifteen and flower girls of Tottenham Court Road, one block over. Their father had died of drink not long after the twins' birth, so from the tender age of six, Davy was the man of the house. He had already been working the streets with a gang of older pickpockets, and he broke away to form his own group when he was nine.<p>

He was eleven when a young toff saved his skin and hired him to do a bit of spying. His life was never again the same. The toff was, of course, a certain private consulting detective.

"Mum, Oi'll be gone fer a long while on a job," Davy explained to his mother as she prepared breakfast. "The bloke wot 'oired me is payin' good money."

"G'on, then, luv," Mum told him absently. "Petey'll tayke care o' things while yew're gone."

Davy shook his head. "Mum," he said gently, deliberately using his middle-class accent, "I don't think you understand. I'll be gone for a very long time, and there's an even chance that I shan't be coming back."

Mum froze. "Wot's this now?" She rounded on him, blue eyes flashing. "David Jonathan Wiggins, yew don't tayke jobs wot moight kill yew, yew 'ear me?"

Davy stood resolute. "Mum, I've been running that risk ever since I was a mite. I can't tell you what I'm doing, but I _need_ to see it through. Peter's a fine young man, and he'll take good care of you. I'll come back if I can, I _promise_."

She turned around to return to the potatoes on the stove, and he sighed inaudibly. "Can't stop yew, can Oi?" was the gruff answer.

"Ah, no?"

"Yew'll 'ave a time o' it 'splaynin' this t' Peter an' yewr Iregyewlars," she clucked disapprovingly.

"Let _me_ worry about Peter and the boys, Mum."

Andrew and the twins dashed through the kitchen just then, Andrew holding aloft his sisters' shared purse. Davy winced at the girls' shrieking as they demanded in no uncertain terms that their purse be returned—and winced further at the floodgate of Billingsgate language his sisters saw fit to use. Mum shouted back at the children to stop and for Faith and Charity to wash their mouths out with soap—there would be none of that sort of talk in her house.

Davy shook his head and slipped away to find Peter. He was not handing merely the responsibility of the family to his brother but the responsibility of the Irregulars as well. Until Davy returned—he certainly had no desire to _not_ come back—Peter would have to serve as the Irregulars' leader.

And Davy didn't envy Peter the task of explaining that turn of events to the boys.

* * *

><p>Watson hadn't the faintest idea where Mycroft Holmes's office was located, nor did he wish to ask Lestrade for directions. The last thing he needed was for the detective's suspicions to be aroused as to the nature of Watson's business. So it was that, at five o'clock, Dr. Watson stood waiting in the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club.<p>

Presently, Mycroft entered the room, clad in mourning. The sight very nearly made Watson falter before he had even spoken a word, but his vow bore him up. "Mr. Holmes, good day."

The large man accepted the greeting with a tilt of his head but did not return it. "Dr. Watson, I see that you are a man on a mission, resolving to do some undercover work, I daresay." Even considering what appeared to be the natural Holmesian reserve, Mycroft's voice was quite flat. "Please, Doctor, do not endanger yourself through some foolish wish for revenge—you cannot tear down James Moriarty's empire from the inside in a short amount of time."

Watson gave a half-smile that would have made the younger Holmes uneasy. "I realise that, sir. Believe me when I say that I have no vengeful intentions. I wish only to find your brother."

Mycroft settled himself at the bow window, and Watson hid a grimace, remembering both Holmes brothers sitting there and passing merry judgment on the world. He wondered if Mycroft had purposely chosen that seat—probably, but Watson did not know the man very well and so could not begin to guess as to Mycroft's intent. "My dear Doctor, we both positively identified the body as being Sherlock's. You discovered for yourself scars which I had no idea existed."

"Scars can be faked, sir. Surely you have considered this possibility yourself."

"Perhaps," Mycroft said evenly.

Watson pressed his lips together—if Sherlock was difficult to read at times, Mycroft was well nigh impossible. "Sir, there is a possibility," he insisted, "and I am bound to follow it up. But I need a few favours."

Mycroft sighed. It was a long, weighty sound, putting Watson in mind of the wind sweeping across the Scottish Highlands. He laced his fingers together and said, "Doctor, you have but to ask."

* * *

><p>Mary and John stood together outside the waiting cab that would take her to Lower Camberwell. The November sun had long since vanished in the ubiquitous murk of London, leaving the city chill and dreary. Mary was almost glad for it—she did not think she could endure sunshine just now.<p>

She turned slightly to study her husband, drink in the sight of him one last time. His bearing was tense and erect, the posture of a soldier. It never ceased to amaze her how much a few short months abroad and in the army had left their indelible stamp upon him, from his tan to his stance to his culinary preferences—and so much more. His eyes gleamed ochre in the light of a nearby streetlamp, underscoring the resolute fire which burned within.

But sorrow and loneliness showed also in his taut, handsome features. He wanted this separation no more than she did, yet it had to be done. She understood that. If there was but the faintest of chances that Sherlock Holmes was still alive, she would let John go to the ends of the earth with her blessing. She loved Sherlock, and she understood how deeply the bond ran betwixt the two men—perhaps better than they did themselves.

"Be careful, John," she said at last.

"Always," was his instinctive response, but he stiffened as he'd said something he had not meant to say.

She circled both arms around his good arm, leaning her head on that shoulder. "I expect a long tale of excitement and adventure when we both come back."

He made a sound like one chuckle. "I shall do my best, dearest."

"And do try for a happy ending?" She halted, surprised at herself, then wrapped her arms around him, burrowing into the warmth that was John Hamish Watson. "I don't think I could bear a sad one."

He tightened his hold on her. "Mary! God alone knows when we shall meet again!"

She pulled away just enough to face him through tear-blurred eyes. "But we shall," she assured him, choking down a sob.

He pressed a swift kiss to her forehead. "I love you," he said huskily.

"And I you." She stroked his face briefly before digging a hand into her coat and pulling out an envelope, pressing it into his large hand. "Your Christmas gift, early," she murmured. "Wait 'til I am gone to open it."

His lips twitched even as a tear rolled down his cheek. "I shall. I wish I had thought of it—I thought of everything else."

She planted a kiss on his lips. "Bring our brother back by the 25th of December. That is all the Christmas gift I need. Now, be strong, dear heart, and go with God."

"And you, dearest Mary." He helped her into the waiting cab and, rather than a wave of farewell, he gave her a soldier's salute.

She smiled through her tears and blew him a kiss as the cab clattered off, leaving behind a forlorn figure in the dim pools of light cast by an orange streetlamp and a red doctor's lamp. _John, I miss you already_.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Ah, more of Porlock! If you're wondering about his age, I would say he's only in his mid-twenties or so. As for his back-story, I'm sure we'll hear more from him in the sequels…

And hurray for Watson! We all knew he could be sneaky if he really tried, right? ^_^ I really don't see Watson having some talent in covert operations as being _un_-canonical—there are canonical instances of when Holmes does need him in this capacity, and, even though Watson doesn't always do the greatest job, that's not to say that _he couldn't with the proper motivation_.

Ha-ha, the Wiggins twins are flower girls on Tottenham Court. ^_^ _My Fair Lady_ fans ought to know this location: it's where Eliza Doolittle sells flowers.

"Dearest, I promised that the moment I knew I loved you" is my favorite line in this chapter. It's a vow that one can quite easily infer from SIGN—poor, sweet, dear John! *hugs him* Writing this last scene… didn't make me cry, but it _did_ sadden me. It's so bittersweet. (Han and Leia's theme from _The Empire Strikes Back_ would fit John and Mary well—for that matter, so would Anakin and Padmé's theme, but I think Han and Leia would work better.)

Actually, come to think of it, a _lot_ of music from TESB's score (to which I've been listening lately) would fit scenes of this story well. But ROTS's "Order 66" must go with the identification scene. And a soft playing of the Force and Star Wars main themes would fit Sherlock Holmes himself very well throughout. *shrugs* What can I say? I'm a movie score and Star Wars aficionado.

Next up, more of Watson and Wiggins… and someone you all have been waiting to see, though I warn you that it shan't be pretty. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	15. 14: Dante's Journey

**Author's Note:**

_HAPPY NEW YEAR~!_

For the sake of the holidays, I am breaking my No-Posting-On-Sunday rule. I am starting the New Year right with Chapter 14 of _Mortality_!

Ahem. After a long hiatus, I am mentally ready to return to this novel, if not quite ready time-wise (online lessons to catch up on, deadlines to reach…). No guarantees when the next chapter will come, but in the meantime, here's an angsty, belated Christmas present for y'all!

Lastly, if you have not checked out _Deliver Us from Evil: In One Hundred Sentences_… you should. If you're a fan of this story, you really should.

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: First off, thanks for allowing me to pick your brain! I keep meaning to get back with on the last PM, but life has been crazy lately. So glad you enjoy sneaky!Watson - I love him to pieces! Ooo, glad you listened to the Han and Leia theme for John and Mary - for the record, no, I wasn't going for tear-jerker (there'll be enough of that, later). Just bittersweet. Thanks, though! Yeah, I'll work on the Wiggins/mum scene, 'cause it does feel bare to me. Also glad you enjoy Mycroft. Hey, never, ever apologize for an LotR quote - I'm a diehard Ringer, myself, and that quote perfectly describes what's happening. Thanks for everything!

ghost117: Don't worry—I won't ever stop this story until it's finished! (You just might have to, ah, wait an age or two. ^_^) Thank you!

RachelG: Oh my… I hope your heart didn't overload from stress while I was on hiatus! Thank you very much, as always, for your lovely review!

anonymous: Thank you! I'm glad you love John and Mary in the previous chapter—I do so love to write them together.

VHunter07: Eeep, two long reviews to answer! ^_^ Let's start with the beginning. **A)** I am not a Watson torturer. Nope, not my shtick. I am a gratuitous Holmes torturer—which started, in part, because I think the poor Doctor gets enough abuse in many, many other stories. =) **B)** If you like the Holmes/Mary chemistry, you should check out _Have a Chaotic Little Christmas_ from my profile—not only does it have some nice moments between the two, it also has Mary _pwning_ him. ;D Anyway, very glad you like the fleshing-out of their relationship. **C)** Ooo, you can actually hear Gatiss!Mycroft when you read the Canon? I'm jealous! I can't do that… yet. **D)** I'm glad you like Porlock—I like him, too. Read some crazy theories regarding him, not that long ago, from Klinger's _New Annotated_… good grief, the stuff people come up with! **E)** Absolved, yay! …Watson's a pretty smart guy. I'm just giving credit where credit is due. **F)** Oh, I wish I could visit London! And, yeah, see it foggy for real. *sighs* Glad that you like the atmosphere. **G)** As for your desire to see Holmes, well… I give you fair warning that it won't be pretty. **H)** Sorry that it took so long to give you an update—writer's block and a mother-load of Real Life got in the way. (Btw, if you haven't read _Deliver Us from Evil: In One Hundred Sentences_, well… like I said in the A/N above, you really should. You'll love it.)

Cainchan: Oh, you don't have to worry about this story continuing… it's just when it continues that might get to you. ^_^ I'm so glad you enjoy Holmes's humanity. I love being able to portray him as an emotional and, yes, fragile human being. Thank you!

iNatix: Thank you so very much! I'm thrilled you enjoy Lestrade so much; I really do love to write him and deepen his characterization. Again, thank you for your lovely, lovely review—it was a wonderful Christmas present.

* * *

><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter XIV==<strong>

**Dante's Journey**

New Scotland Yard's mortuary was no less disorderly than it had been earlier in the week. Mycroft could not help but hear his brother's voice calling the Yard "a bad lot." The elder Holmes favoured a somewhat different opinion, but then, Sherlock—for all the lad's brilliance—could not seem to comprehend certain realities in the world.

Or universe, for that matter. Explaining his brother's ignorance of a heliocentric solar system to a bemused Cabinet member had not been one of Mycroft's prouder moments.

Mycroft made his way to the proper table, men flowing around his tremendous bulk like a river around a boulder. Inspector Patterson was waiting there, and the man doffed his hat respectfully. "Mr. Holmes. Good of you to return."

"Not at all, Inspector." Mycroft could understand how a man of average intelligence could mistake Patterson for his brother, but Mycroft could never make that mistake. Patterson's nuances were far different from Sherlock's, despite the rather familial resemblance. The corpse, on the other hand…

Mycroft surreptitiously sucked in a deep breath. "Let us see who exactly this poor devil is. Have you the personal effects?"

Patterson raised a bag in reply. "White shirt and collar, black waistcoat, pinstriped trousers—" he laid out each item on a nearby empty table as he spoke—"patent leather shoes… Cufflinks, cravat, and cravat pin gone, as are the watch, the pocketbook—any ordinary means of identification or possible tool, which is as it should be if this man were one of Moriarty's prisoners. If it is a high-level imprisonment, the stripping is quite thorough."

"Of course," Mycroft murmured. "They took great pains to make this man appear as my brother." His chest clenched reflexively as he grabbed the sheet and pulled it down to chest level. He just restrained a grimace. "Father in Heaven."

The corpse's appearance had not improved in the past five days, nor had it ceased its resemblance to Sherlock. His stomach twisted. "I am allowed full rein?"

"Quite."

"Good. Have you a makeup expert on hand? I fear such an expertise lies with my brother, not myself."

"I possess considerable expertise in such matters, sir."

"Indeed?" Mycroft focused his vision on the corner of the table rather than the table's occupant—he was neither doctor nor policeman nor soldier, he had no previous experience with such mutilation, and he was truly feeling ill. "Then while I examine the limbs, I suggest that you inspect the face for makeup."

"As you wish."

Pushing down a sudden rise of bile, Mycroft reached for the left arm and gingerly pressed two fingers to the biceps. Gathering courage, he felt the arm all over. "Oh," he murmured, feeling foolish for not having done a thorough examination of the body before. He had selfishly allowed the poor Doctor to identify the corpse, and Watson had, of course, recognised Sherlock's most overt features. But Sherlock's left arm had never been as underdeveloped as was this man's. Sherlock had played the violin from an early age, and he'd been boxing for nearly as long, with a fondness for the straight left. Consequently, he had a stronger left arm than most right-handed gentlemen.

Patterson looked up from his gentle examination of the face. "Sir?"

"Never mind, Inspector," Mycroft said quietly, turning his attention to the corpse's right hand. The creases in it suggested a good deal of writing—a clerk, perhaps? An inspection of the legs appeared to bear out that theory—the muscles there were also underdeveloped. Their mystery man had done a good deal of sitting. For all that Sherlock liked to lounge around when he felt lazy or depressed, his leg muscles were well-toned and powerful.

This body could not _possibly_ be that of his brother's.

"Ha." Patterson looked up again, satisfaction lighting his ice-blue eyes. "Sir, look." He set his index fingernail at the bridge of the corpse's nose and carefully pulled down, peeling back the aquiline nose to reveal a very Grecian one.

"Sherlock, forgive me for abandoning you for that one accursed day," Mycroft said aloud. Patterson glanced at him quizzically. "I have made a grave error, Inspector. I allowed emotion to cloud my judgment. Had I not been so distraught, I should doubtless have entertained the possibility of a falsified corpse and examined the body objectively."

"You are human, sir," Patterson said evenly, "and humans err."

Mycroft settled the hands over the bloodstained chest, bowing his head in respect to the dead. "But God forgive us when we do."

* * *

><p>Could Sherlock Holmes have seen the changes that had come over his two closest companions, he would have looked twice before recognising them. Wiggins's bright golden hair had been dyed brown, and putty applied to his face to make his thin, boyish features harder and more angular. Watson's ginger blond hair had been dyed black—taking full advantage of his permanent tan—and his moustache shaved off for the first time in his adult life, taking several years off his appearance.<p>

Mycroft Holmes had supplied official records for both men's new identities. Wiggins was now Padraic Clancy, a young Irishman born of a poor army major and come to London to improve his fortunes—without success. Watson was a similarly luckless individual, a discharged army surgeon who had served in India and could not now find himself employment. His new name was Jack Davids.

Porlock spent an entire week in ensuring that the pair would pass muster. Wiggins, accustomed to passing for an Irishman thanks to his long friendship with Sean Youghal, needed little practise, but Watson was another matter. Holmes himself had so recently told Watson that dissimulation found no place among his talents—Watson was quite determined to rectify that problem. His solution lay in the fact that so much of his tale was true, or could have been so.

Had Stamford never introduced Watson to Holmes, Watson might have eventually found himself on the streets as so many of his fellow veterans had.

He had never forgotten that, especially when he saw the occasional beggar still clad in his uniform. It pained and chilled him beyond even his ability to describe. _There, but for the grace of God, goes John Watson_. He owed Holmes so much.

"Stop, Doctor—stop right there," Porlock would demand as Watson practised telling his tale of woe. "You sound like a schoolboy reciting his Shakespeare. If you speak in that manner when you're 'in your cups,' they shall know you for a liar. For heaven's sake, man, throw in a little variety!"

"First-rate, Doc!" Wiggins applauded after Watson managed a decent variation. "You're a born storyteller, sir—you _can_ do this." A few minutes later: "Wait… Ah, slump your shoulders a little more: you look less a disheartened soldier and more a proud one."

In the light of day, Watson bore it all with the stoicism of his Scottish blood.

Night would find the doctor curled up on a shoddy bed in a less-than-reputable hostel in Bethnal Green, clutching a locket—Mary's early Christmas gift. The note within the envelope she gave him explained that the trinket had been a collaboration between her and Holmes, bearing miniature photographs of the two.

"Mary, love, I pray you are as well as ever with Mrs. Forrester. I miss you so dreadfully. I long to be back in our sitting room, with you in my arms. I love you, dearest.

"Holmes, I pray that you are yet alive, and that I shall find you before it is too late. You have always been strong, it is true, but… you are so… so very _fragile_, as well. Please… _please_ be strong now. I am coming for you, my dear fellow, I promise you. I am coming."

* * *

><p>"It's a bloomin' shame, is what i'tis. All us veterer-vet-<em>vet-er-ans<em> doin' the Queen's business out in godforsaken lands an' comin' back home to a cold welcome. Most-a my boys've been reduced t' tramps an' beggars."

"Can't find yerself work then, lad?"

John Watson shook his head pitifully, nursing his second pint. Many tragedies had befallen his family, but one of the worst was that his elder brother Harold had never been able to hold his liquor—a failing which took him to the grave—while John seemed unfairly gifted with the ability to abide more drink than a man could normally handle. Therefore, he could afford to drink a little more than he usually did, as he had no fear of becoming inebriated.

However, he could very easily feign drunkenness.

"N'body wan's a locum a-th' hospi'als," he mourned, "an' even more n'body wan's anuther gen'ral prac-_prac-tish-uner_."

"Poor devil," his sailor companion commiserated.

"_Poor devil! What are you up to now?"_

"_Looking for lodgings. Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price."_

"_That's a strange thing; you are the second man today that has used that expression to me."_

"It's a cruel world," continued the sailor, oblivious to Watson's abrupt flash of memory, "an' no mistake."

Watson blinked and mentally shook himself. "'Deed i'tis," he nodded jerkily. "'Deed i'tis."

It was his fourth night making a despondent appearance at The Ebon Stag, one of the seediest establishments he'd ever had the misfortune of visiting. _And Wiggins thought ill of The Goose and Gander!_ At least one of Moriarty's men could be found in just about any tavern in London, but some taverns were frequented by clusters of those men. The Ebon Stag, Porlock had said, was one such place. Thus far, he'd not yet been approached by any members of Moriarty's empire, but, in all likelihood, they needed to establish that he was truly desperate for work.

Such men, according to both Porlock and Holmes, were easy prey for Moriarty's minions, the jobless and homeless. Watson wondered, though, how readily those poor souls compromised their morals for a roof over their heads and bread on the table. He supposed he would find out sooner or later, and pray God that it would be sooner.

As he staggered convincingly away from the bar, he thought he caught a glimpse, in his peripheral vision, of a man watching him from a dimly lit table populated by several roughs. A desperate hope sparked to life in his breast as he exited the tavern—had he been noticed and considered for employment?

He was tempted to wire Wiggins and see if the boy had had better luck, but thought better of it. Once Wiggins entered the gang, he would be certain to inform Watson. Watson had to wait.

Such vigils had never sat well with him, as a certain private consulting detective could testify.

How much longer must he endure this suspense before he was at last rewarded for his pains?

* * *

><p>He was swiftly coming to loathe absolute darkness with a passion. There was nothing for his eyes to take in, nothing for his brain to absorb and work upon. Thus, he had taken to reviewing events and conversations of the past few months, unpleasant though many of them were. It was vastly preferably to letting his brain wander and spin, and it gave his mind's eye an image upon which to focus.<p>

"_Sherlock, do sit down, there's a good fellow?" Sherlock sighed theatrically but obeyed his brother, and Mycroft nodded in satisfaction. "Now, the Home Office has decided to put an inspector on the trail of Professor Moriarty."_

_Sherlock snorted incredulously. "Four years after I bring him to the attention of…" Then he caught the look in his brother's eyes. "Oh, no. Mycroft…"_

"_He is of an old family, Sherlock, and he has friends and connexions quite highly placed."_

_Sherlock's stomach plummeted to the region of his shoes. "How long has the Home Office known?" Mycroft's watery grey eyes slipped out of focus, his way of sidestepping a question—but the younger Holmes would have none of it. "Mycroft. _How long have they known?_"_

_The pale eyes reluctantly refocused. "Some members of the Home Office… since before you left Cambridge."_

_Sherlock felt the urge to curse, smoke a cigarette, pace the floor. He remained seated and outwardly, dangerously calm. "I see."_

_Mycroft sighed and folded his large hands together. "Sherlock, do you remember the investigation Father had taken up with Scotland Yard before he died?"_

_The younger brother felt very, very cold as his brain absorbed this new information and processed it to fit with the facts of his first case. It lined up, certainly. "Who is the inspector?" he asked, rather than continue that line of thought any longer. He couldn't dwell on it—that way led to madness, he knew. To have allowed such a dangerous criminal liberty for so long…_

No. Stop_._

_The older brother raised an eyebrow but answered. "Daniel Patterson of the C.I.D."_

_Sherlock frowned. "A new man?" He had thought he was familiar with the full roster of Detective Inspectors and Detective Sergeants in Scotland Yard, as well as the P.C.s working with the Criminal Investigation Department._

_Mycroft shook his head. "I believe he was promoted up just before you began working the Yard in earnest—he is but a few years your senior."_

_Feeling a headache form behind his eyes, Sherlock massaged the bridge of his nose. "Undercover work. He was promoted for undercover… great heavens." That phrase tended to be his strongest expletive. "Do you mean to tell me that you have had a man _inside_ Moriarty's organisation for a good _decade_? Mycroft… Why didn't you tell me?"_

Could Mycroft see his brother now, he would shake his head, Sherlock knew. _Sherlock, for heaven's sake, of all the imbecilic things to do, you allowed yourself to be kidnapped. How many times have I told you _never_ to go into such dangerous situations without backup? Do you not recall your first failure? You would have died had I not deduced events and arrived in time. My dear boy, use the mighty brain God gave you!_

"Well, am I not right?"

He turned away. It was so incredibly real, but he would not allow himself to fall for this illusion as he had fallen for others before.

"Brother mine?"

Was it even the drugs, or was his mind slowly going mad from inactivity? The deucedly swift thing was like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it wasn't connected up with the work for which it built. At times, he even found himself reciting his multiplication tables for lack of anything better to do—surely that was madness in an adult!

"Sherlock, look at me."

The voice was both authoritative and gentle, and Sherlock Holmes did not resist this time, did not have the will to do so. He turned, looked up, saw his brother peering benevolently down at him. "Mycroft," he rasped.

"My dear boy, when shall you ever learn?"

He shook his head bemusedly. "You are not real."

"I am real enough to give you the scolding you deserve," the apparition returned. Not unkindly, but it rankled all the same.

"Scolding?" Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Is _this_ not scolding enough, brother mine?" His voice sounded high and shrill to his own ears, but he could not stop himself. "Does this punishment—" he tilted his head and body to give the shadow Mycroft a full display of the knife wounds—"_appear trivial to you?_"

"You've had worse," was the mild reply.

The anger simmering in his gut rose to his chest, pushed its way to his throat, nearly choked him as he glared at his unmovable brother.

"You know that they shall do worse to you before the end."

"Before _what_ end?" he all but spat.

For the first time, Mycroft looked troubled. "Even I cannot say, Sherlock. I can only tell you to be strong."

Sherlock let his head hang at the familiar words, pulled from his memory to be spoken by this conjuring of his imagination. "You are not real," he repeated dully.

"But I am. I need not be physically in-person to be real—I am real because of your memory and knowledge of me." Mycroft's tone took on a note of genuine concern. "I can only tell you what you already know, but, Sherlock, for heaven's sake, _be strong_. Little brother, I fear that they shall do so much to you before they are finished."

"I know," Sherlock murmured.

"Stay true to all for which you stand, for they _will_ attempt to rip that foundation away from you."

He looked up then with a weary smile. "Are you truly a fabrication of my imagination, or are you perhaps an angel in disguise?"

Mycroft glanced down at himself ruefully. "Rather a poor disguise for an angel."

Sherlock laughed tiredly—and paused, surprised that he still had it in him to laugh, however wearily.

"Stand firm, Sherlock."

Pain exploded in his stomach, and he woke with a cry. He'd been kicked, again. Still only half-conscious, he murmured his brother's name as two pairs of hands hauled him up and pinned his arms to the wall. He hung forward, unable to hold himself straight.

A glowing red rod dominated his vision. "All right, Mr. Holmes," said an unfamiliar voice. "Who has been feeding you information about our, ahem, activities?"

He couldn't look up, could only shake his head wearily, his eyes oddly fascinated with that bright line of red. Some part of his mind was screaming _danger_, and he instinctively focused on that red line, attempting to pull his mind back together to the point where he could bottle up the coming pain and ignore it. But his infamous self-control flitted and twirled just beyond his drugged reach…

"As you like, Mr. Holmes."

Then he was burning, and his brother, could Mycroft have even believed it, could not hear his name being screamed deep within an old dungeon.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

*shivers* That was dark, I know. But you have to remember: Sherlock has to reach the point he's at in the Prologue. He's not there yet.

I never did remove the Mycroft flashback from that previous chapter—at least, not in the FFN version. Anyway, that flashback has, as you see, been moved to this chapter and this last particular scene for better cohesion. Btw, I enjoyed writing dream!Mycroft.

Come to think of it, this chapter has a lot of Mycroft. And if you want to know what delayed this chapter by two months, weeell… it was the very first scene. Mycroft and Patterson just were _not_ cooperating. And now I don't know when I'll be able to update again, because _Watson_ isn't cooperating, either, _and_ I have to get my online course finished up before I have to pay a late fee. -_-

_**Please review!**_


	16. 15: Fear No Evil

**Author's Note:**

Good grief, this chapter was ready _weeks_ ago—but having no Internet at home, I've had next to no chance lately to upload it! I would apologize, only I can hardly apologize for something beyond my control. And I'm only uploading this on a Sunday because I don't know _when_ I'll have another chance. Anyhoo…

I AM DONE WITH SCHOOL, AND I AM LOVING IT! …I don't think I want to take another college course ever again. Oy vey.

Check out my blog (www . studysherlockiana . blogspot . com) for the "Return from the Hiatus" post to see what I'm up to now! I talk about AMM, _Have Yourself a Chaotic Little Christmas_, _Mortality_, the sequel, a new novel idea, and a few fics, most of them crossovers.

Btw, this chapter is a bit smallish. I think that, in drafting this novel, I'm tending to write a much more distant third-person than I do in my one-shots and serial fics. Don't worry, though—I'm sure the finished product will be much more in-depth (certainly as long as MadameGiry25 keeps reading this story! ^_^).

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: Well, golly, you're welcome! =D I'm so glad you liked the first Mycroft scene so much! Trying to imagine Wiggins and Watson in disguise actually makes me go cross-eyed, I have such a hard time with it! ^_^ Tee-hee, yeah, I'm sure that Watson did give Porlock one or two indignant looks. If, a month and a half after reading chapter 14, you think you can remember your thoughts on the dream!Mycroft scene, I would indeed appreciate it if you could expand on what you said. I'm all ears! …anyhoo, thank you very much! (P.S. I'll review your story when I can, but there's a lot that I want to say and almost no time in which to say it. Might take a while, sorry.)

Shall be lifted Nevermore: Melancholy though the reason for your name change is, I _adore_ your new screenname! =D I don't know if you read it, but I had the word "nevermore" for a prompt in the advent calendar challenge and I built a brief Moriarty piece off of it. Ahem, anyway! The title "Dante's Journey" does indeed have to do with Hell, but it's more the _descent_ into Hell (hmm, perhaps I should change the title to reflect that more accurately). It's one of those open-ended titles, where it could be referring to Watson descending into the London Underworld or Holmes's physical torture/spiral into madness.

finderj: Thank you!

Rachel G: Heh-heh, terribly sorry to be killing you from the suspense! Wow, the ONLY Sherlockian fanfic? I'm flattered and honored. *blushes* Actually, I ended up buying a few Rathbone movies, and I enjoy his take on Holmes (though, of course, Jeremy Brett is forever my Number One). Well, heh, I wouldn't call my story canon, exactly, as I do take some liberty with things that, I think, many professionals would not dare to. But I would like to think that my work can accurately, or at least lovingly, flesh-out the wonderful characters of Sherlock, Watson, Mary, Mycroft, Wiggins, Lestrade, Gregson, Patterson, Moriarty, and Moran. I feel bound to ask, however, if you've ever read **aragonite**'s fics—her Holmes is _brilliant_. She paints a vivid picture of a slightly-mad, deep-feeling, quirky, humorous genius, and it not only puts me in mind of My Fair Jeremy, it also makes me fall in love with Holmes all over again. Her stories ought to be required reading for Sherlockians—that's how good they are. Anyway, thank you for the praise and the understanding!

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><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

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><p><strong>==Chapter XV==<strong>

**Fear No Evil**

"Our Father… Who art in Heaven… hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy… will be done, in Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us… this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts… as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but… deli—oh, _dear God_, deliver us from evil! For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever. Amen."

_Deliver us from evil_.

When had this battle of intellects become spiritual warfare?

_Perhaps it has been so from the beginning,_ a voice murmured. Odd, that voice sounded remarkably like Watson…

_Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me_.

He long since begun to believe that he would not leave this place alive. Certainly, he would not be released, and the chances of being found and rescued were slim. For years now, he had accepted the idea that he would probably drop in the harness rather than pass away quietly of old age, and had long since resigned himself to that fate. But this was not even dropping in the harness—this was bitter failure, his name simply added to the tally of a long line of victims crushed beneath the inexorable wheels of Moriarty's empire.

"_Do you say that no one can ever get level with this king devil?"_

"_No, I don't say that. I don't say that he can't be beat. But you must give me time—you must give me time!"_

He could no longer remember the man with whom he spoke, but his own words rose up to mock him. Give him time, indeed. Nearly three years later… apparently, that was not time enough, not even for him. So much for "the Great Detective."

He closed his eyes—not that there was any change in his vision as he did so—and exhaled heavily. An image rose, unbidden, in his mind of yet another session of torture, succumbing to oblivion and this time… not waking up…

_No_.

He was still stronger than that.

Wasn't he?

* * *

><p>Watson's left thigh throbbed as he lowered himself into a chair. Once he could take his weight off the leg, he sighed in relief and leaned back, but not before giving his right shoulder a brief massage. His wounds were promising heavy rain later.<p>

"Have a drink with me, old chap?"

He smiled ruefully up at the speaker and shrugged, indicating the table before him. "Have yourself a seat."

The stranger nodded and called in the general direction of the bar for two pints. Watson studied his benefactor as he sat: early forties, just below 6', slim, rather dapper, sallow, brown eyes, salt-and-pepper hair. What put him immediately on his guard was a ropy scar running from the man's left cheekbone to his jaw line. That was… promising—if one wanted to enter the criminal fraternity, at least.

"Don't worry about the cost, either, Doc," the man said lightly.

Watson started, a reaction entirely feigned. "How did you know I am a doctor?"

The man chuckled. "Been seeing you come in every night since Saturday—been hearing you, too. Hard luck, your inability to find employment."

Watson stiffened. "My apologies," he said curtly. "I'm afraid drink has that effect on me."

The other's brown eyes twinkled. "Ah, then why do you drink?"

Watson's dark hazel eyes narrowed. "What else is there for me to do?"

"Aye, what indeed, Doc?" Their drinks arrived then, and the man pushed Watson's tankard over. "Cheers."

Watson merely raised his tankard in silent salute before taking a swig.

"'Course, there's never really enough men with your talents, Doc. I put to you that more'n half the poor sots here in Whitechapel could use a doctor, but there'd be no pay in it."

"True enough," Watson nodded, and meant it. Most of the people in London who required serious medical care could ill afford it, or could not afford it at all. Such people far outnumbered London's more affluent citizens. Before his marriage, one of Watson's locum practises had been for a doctor willing to brave the East End, and he understood all too well how poverty and disease went hand in hand.

"Men round these parts get injured all the time, and there's nobody what's qualified to heal 'em."

Watson leant forward, taking care to curb his eagerness. "Man, come to it, now. You're leading up to something."

The other man chortled over his tankard. "Ah, you're a sharp one when your wits aren't dulled by drink, aren't you, Doctor?" Grinning, he leaned forward as well. "Aye, I am. I think my employer could use a man of your talents."

_I am certain he could_. Watson took care that his face did not betray his thoughts, letting his eyes gleam instead with suppressed excitement. "A private doctor?"

The man tilted his head to the side. "Not quite, Doc, not quite. More of a… general practitioner for a specific group."

Watson leaned back, then, his features filling with distaste. "A gang. No thank you—I'll have no part in aiding and abetting criminals. I've no desire to end my days in Newgate or, Heaven forbid, by the rope."

"Nor would we want you to," the other soothed. "Don't worry, Doctor—we don't let the Peelers get to our angels of mercy."

"Angels or demons?"

Far from being put off, the man threw his head back and laughed. "Sharp, stubborn, and ethical! My god, what a formidable combination!"

Watson's eyes narrowed. "I fail to see the amusement in this."

"Ah, forgive me, my good man!" the man said between calming breaths. "Oh, but, Doctor, do consider. You're unemployed, you have no prospects, your pension shan't hold you forever, and the simple fact is that there are men who _do_ **need** your services and _are_ willing to pay for them. Besides, most of the lot you'd be treating are men like yourself, driven to the other side of the law because they can't support themselves and their families any other way."

In all likelihood, it was true, too. Watson had encountered many such individuals—men, women, and children. Holmes's own Irregulars were a classic case-in-point.

He sighed, his already-slumped posture drooping a bit further. "There's truth in what you say, I'll not deny, but I shan't sell my soul to the Devil to keep a roof over my head."

The man shrugged, smiling apologetically. "Suit yourself, Doc. If you change your mind, you can always find me here. Just ask for Wheatley, but mind that you don't bring any coppers with you." Watson had expected the man's smile to turn nasty, but, to his surprise, the man's expression turned solemn. "That'd be a sodding lot of trouble as nobody here would want to deal with."

"I'll remember that," Watson said sincerely.

The man—Wheatley—nodded once and doffed his hat. "Evening to you, Doctor."

"Good night."

Watson waited until Wheatley was safely away, then stood and did not quite rush to the door. But he exited the tavern quickly and pressed himself against the wall, tilting his head back and drawing in deep gulps of foetid air. His heart throbbed in his throat. His left hand twitched and trembled uncontrollably. He clamped his right hand over the traitorous left and continued to breathe deeply, ignoring the rank odours wafting around him.

_Holmes, I don't know how you do it_. There was so much truth in Watson's performance, and yet smothering his thoughts and emotions was so deucedly difficult! Watson had very little difficulty in being open and unguarded—"content and comfortable with yourself" was how Mary had once described it. But acting… well, Holmes hadn't been exaggerating when he said that dissimulation was not one of Watson's talents.

_Enough of this. You are acting like a child, John_. He took one last bracing breath—without squaring his shoulders, and that was hard—and stepped back into The Ebon Stag to finish his pint. He was no Holmes, Sherlock or Mycroft, but he could certainly feel eyes on him when he was being watched. He felt those eyes right now as he limped back to his table and all but collapsed into his chair.

He had little to consider about the job—if it was indeed coming from Moriarty's gang, and chances were good that it was—but Dr. Jack Davids was another matter. Dr. Davids had no ulterior motives, would have to compromise his morals seriously to accept such an offer.

Irritating fellow, that Davids.

Watson sighed morosely and cupped his chin in his hand. Nothing worthwhile ever did come easily.

* * *

><p>At the corner of Vere and Oxford, Patterson found Fitzgerald pacing beneath their designated streetlamp, the agitation rolling off him in waves. "Cigarette to soothe your nerves?" Patterson murmured, offering his case.<p>

Fitzgerald very nearly snarled, huffing a large cloud of breath in the cold night air. "No, thank you."

Patterson shrugged one-shouldered and returned the case to his pocket. "Am I to understand, then, that you are having decided difficulty in finding your friend?"

"_You are bloody right I am!_ I thought I should be able to search well enough on my own, but I've been engaged in a new job that has left me just enough time to send two other fellows off to search! I scarcely had enough time for a walk this evening!"

Patterson cocked an eyebrow—the young man was, as a rule, quite unflappable. "Deep breaths, my boy, else you shall asphyxiate yourself."

Fitzgerald paused in mid-stride to glare at the detective. "If that is your way of telling me to calm down, you needn't bother. I am far too agitated at present."

The older man sighed. "As you like." He twirled his walking stick idly. "Well, you have those two fellows off on the search. Do you think they may succeed?"

The younger man rubbed his walking stick between his palms as if the motion soothed him. "I am not certain. Time is against them."

Patterson accepted that estimation with a cool nod. "Any word from them yet?"

The other shook his head mutely.

"I see." Patterson folded his hands together over the walking stick and leaned in close. "Take heart, my boy. We could not have better men on the job."

"Do you think so?" was the bitter retort.

Patterson met the younger man's gaze squarely, and, after a minute, Fitzgerald cast his gaze downward. "They will do," the detective murmured. "They will do."

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><p>Being an Irishman fulltime was not easy. Wiggins typically enjoyed hearing and speaking the accent, but when it was the <em>only<em> accent he used… well, it was about to drive him out of his mind. Sean would be laughing himself into hysterics at the way Wiggins exploded with exasperation as soon as he shut his door behind him.

But Wiggins's pains had proven to be worth the bother. He had a foothold in Moriarty's organisation now as an accountant for one of the small units. As he made his way to the nearest telegraph office, he walked with the stride of the triumphant. He was_ inside_.

His new job was certainly… amusing. All street lads knew money—it was practically requisite for the trade—but most of them could hardly qualify for an accounting job. Thanks to his old tutor, Mr. King, Wiggins could have taken up any career he desired—could even have taken a scholarship for university education. And arithmetic was one area in which he'd proven himself exceptionally proficient.

His new job provided certain opportunities beyond finding Mr. Holmes. He would have to wait to observe how the bookkeeping worked, but he had a chance at setting this particular little unit on the road to financial ruin.

MORRIS

LITTLE BROTHER RECOVERING FROM ILLNESS STOP PLAYING WITH HIS ABACUS STOP WILL FIND MISSING TOY AS SOON AS POSSIBLE FINAL STOP

_DONOVAN_

JAMES

LITTLE BROTHER RECOVERING FROM ILLNESS STOP PLAYING WITH HIS ABACUS STOP KEEP CHIN UP FINAL STOP

_DAVID_

Ice pellets assaulted him with stinging force as he exited the telegraph office, and he cursed. There was nothing like London sleet to turn a good day sour. He pressed his bowler to his head with one hand and hailed the nearest cab with the other hand.

Wiggins hoped the Doctor's luck would be as good as his own.

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><p>The fever, miraculously, had burned itself out—probably thanks to whatever was in his food and drink—but he realised this only in his more lucid moments. More often, his world of darkness spun around him in a maelstrom of disconnected facts, memories, voices, and faces, and he could make no sense of any of it.<p>

_Dim orange light, gentle strains of music, a violin's music, billows of pale blue…_

"_Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."_

_The acrid but comfortable odour of ships tobacco mixing with shag…_

"_See that you keep yourself out of my grip."_

_The filth of the Thames filling his mouth, the inexorable waves crashing over him and imprisoning him in their icy, paralysing grip…_

"_Sherlock, you will never learn if you persisting in quitting early."_

_Flames encircling him, suffocating him…_

"_Mr. Holmes, believe it or not, I am every bit as stubborn as you."_

_Sticky crimson stains on his hands from blood, Watson's blood…_

"_I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of stories."_

_Fog rolling up from the moor, enveloping them, but not completely enough to conceal the shimmering hellhound that shot his heart up into his mouth…_

"_Sherlock, put these foolish notions of crime and detection out of your head this instant, do you hear me? I'll not see any son of mine demeaned to the level of a workman of Scotland Yard."_

_Gentle hands directing his own along the Stradivarius…_

In his coherent moments, he knew that his reason was slipping away, despite the disappearance of the fever. Thanks to the drugs, the blackness, the confinement, and the ever-present pain, he was gradually going mad.

It frightened him more than the torture did, and he was developing a definite fear of pain.

All his life, he'd been possessed of an extraordinarily low sensitivity to pain. He was one of those gifted individuals who could accept their pain and ignore it, to a degree, focussing their minds elsewhere. But here, already weakened and beaten before his arrival, the foreign substances running through his veins left him frail, vulnerable.

He'd screamed for Mycroft. He had never screamed before under torture, and, oh, he had been subjected to it before. But that glowing poker… It had been days already, he thought, since his flesh was branded with that red iron, but his memory could still recall every detail with excruciating clarity.

He hoped never to have to endure that kind of agony again.

A _creeeak_ from the door, and a beam of light. Small stars danced in his vision, and it was a few moments before he could focus his failing vision properly to identify the flickering lights.

Dull bits of metal, attached to cords. As his waistcoat and shirt were torn off him, the jagged metal swayed teasingly before his eyes, which he closed in weary resignation. He knew that particular tool, had seen its effects upon other unfortunates—most of whom had ended up in the mortuary.

Cat-o'-nine tails.

This time, he bit back the screams pushing up his throat, begging for release, until blood flowed almost as freely from his lip and tongue as it did from his back.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

It's actually been months since I wrote these scenes—ALL of them—but I can well recall that writing Holmes's scenes just broke my heart. It really did. It broke my heart rereading those scenes before spiffing up this chapter enough to upload it. Lines like this: _this was bitter failure, his name simply added to the tally of a long line of victims crushed beneath the inexorable wheels of Moriarty's empire._

*bites lip* This is _Sherlock Holmes_ thinking this. Sherlock Never-Say-Die Holmes giving up on himself, basically. I think Moriarty was smarter than Holmes. He was certainly more powerful. So why don't we see more stories in which Holmes feels beaten by his greatest adversary? I've read _The Execution of Sherlock Holmes_ and _The House of Silk_, and the latter made me fear more for Holmes than the former, got me closer to him than a lot of pastiches do (but no, I refuse to regard even _House_ as Canon—I don't care what the Estate says). BUT. Neither of those stories was Holmes VS Moriarty, and Holmes never once _slowed down_. He never felt beaten. I'm sorry, but Sherlock Holmes is just not superhuman. Super_intellectual_, yes. Super_human_, no. I've needed so badly to see a situation in which he is just utterly despairing that I've gone and written my own!

I'm not really very happy with the other scenes in this chapter… What really makes me sick is that there was originally a scene with Lestrade at the beginning, but no matter how many times I rewrote it, it was absolutely worthless. It really was. When I do the redrafting of the novel, that'll probably be a perfect point to inject a scene with the Lestrade family. I would have tried for it now, only I want the family to be introduced _much_ earlier in the book, rather than right here. I'm afraid y'all will have to wait for the published version to see the Lestrades in _Mortality_.

I do, though, like Wheatley, who is named after Alan Wheatley, an actor who played both Holmes in a '51 BBC TV series as well as my absolute _favorite_ Sheriff of Nottingham in the Richard Greene Robin Hood series. Wheatley's characterization is, in part, based off of said Sheriff.

Also, did you get the code Wiggins was using in his telegrams, and the names he was using? "Little brother recovering" means that he's now inside, "playing with abacus" was Wiggins figuring that Patterson and Watson would understand he meant that he was doing accounting, and "missing toy," of course, refers to Sherlock. In his telegram to Patterson, Wiggins was using the pseudonyms by which they'd previously known each other; in his telegram to Watson, Wiggins merely used Watson's middle name in English, Hamish=James, and signed with his proper Christian name.

Well, again, no promises as to when the next chapter goes up. It's _incredibly_ difficult, even if I did recently work out two very important scenes. I think that once I get past a certain rut, the pace is really going to pick up, and we might well fly to the end. …not, that is, that you'll actually see the last few chapters up here online. I want you to _buy_ the book when it's published, don't forget. On the bright side, if I can get MX Publishing to accept it, it might well be published very quickly. It's just the editing that will take forever. ^_^

In the meantime, however, do feel free to check out my other Sherlockian fics, like _Have Yourself a Chaotic Little Christmas_, _Stepping Through the Wardrobe_, and my _Sherlock Holmes in the 22__nd__ Century_ stuff, if you are so inclined…

_**Please review!**_


	17. 16: Fragile

**Author's Note:**

For the first time since I began to post this novel, I was about to post in real time. In other words, this chapter was going to be uploaded upon its completion, rather than having chapters sitting on my hard drive for weeks or even months in the wait to be uploaded. But _then_ I finished the following chapter before I could get this one up, so _still_ no real time uploading!

Anyway, **Good News 1#:** I am probably going upload all the chapters of the book to FFN. This should, I hope, make no difference in your buying the published version, because there's a LOT that's being left out of this first draft, including a sequence of scenes with Watson, Colonel Hayter, and Moran. And Lestrade's family. And the investigation into Holmes's corpse double. Like I said, a LOT.

**Good News 2#:** Once I get this manuscript polished and edited and all, I am DEFINITELY sending this novel off to MX Publishing. Some of you might be familiar with those people, as they are the ones who published well-received books like _Barefoot on Baker Street_ and _Shadowfall_—they are very big on Sherlock Holmes, and they _will_ take first-time authors without an agent. *does Jeremy-Brett-jump-for-joy* Actually, I plan on, very soon, sending AMM off to them and seeing if they'll take it.

**Good News 3#:** I am finally on deviantART! I have several colored-in illustrations from AMM, with more on their way! **www(dot)aleineskyfire(dot)deviantart(dot)com**

Oh, and as a **WARNING:** this chapter will, in all likelihood, _seriously_ depress you. So go read or watch something light-hearted afterward. Please!

**To my reviewers:**

Historian1912: M'kay, let's start with the " thing"—it's really _not_ that hard. If you like, I can walk you through it sometime. Second, publishing. I thought I announced this ages ago, but looking over my notes throughout the fic, I can see I wasn't clear enough. So I made an official announcement above regarding publishing. =) Meh, skip publishing company and go for filmmaking company. I can't _tell_ you how badly I want to turn this series into films!

RachelG: Heh, my blushes, Watson! =D You're welcome!

MadameGiry25: Awww! *hugs* Eesh, did the opening scene really sound like Watson? *grimace* Must fix! Of course, that deleted Lestrade scene had kind of a lead-in to Holmes's scene, so it would probably have made more sense that way. There will be a different opening scene in the final version, I promise. Ach, well, at least you thought the emotion was good. Score! Yeah, I realized that I really wasn't paying enough attention to Watson's wounds, so it was a good point to insert that. Glad you enjoyed the conversation between Watson and Wheatley, and that you thought it grounded the story in the proper time period. Whoever thought your own story was _Sherlock_ wasn't paying enough attention—I think the cholera itself, if nothing else, grounds your fic firmly in the 1800s! Also glad you enjoyed Patterson. If/when/(aren't I naughty?) Holmes is taken out of his predicament, there _won't_ be much left of him needing rescuing… unfortunately, that's kind of part of the point of this story. I get the feeling that you're not going to like his scene in this chapter very much… *hides under desk* Last but not least, I should be reviewing your fic very, very soon! Thank you so much for everything!

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><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

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><p><strong>==Chapter XVI==<strong>

**Fragile**

As Watson's wounds had predicted, the weather did indeed take a distinct turn for the worst, and The Ebon Stag was certainly as gloomy as ever. Watson scarcely noticed, excitement and anxiety vying for supremacy within him. _Wiggins had made it inside_. By all that was holy, Watson vowed that his position would be the same before the night was out.

And he prayed that his appearance betrayed none of his emotion as he threaded his way through the smoky haze up to the bar. The landlord was as seedy a person as his establishment, and peered up at Watson with small dark eyes. "Ah, Doct'r. Ready for your pint?"

Watson was amused in passing to note that it took less than a week to determine a man's habit. "I am, indeed." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. "And I was wondering if a Mr. Wheatley was here this evening? I spoke with him last night."

The small eyes regarded him silently for a moment before their owner answered. "You'll find him back there," and he nodded in the proper direction.

Watson glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of a man who looked to be Wheatley, though it was difficult to tell in the deplorably dim light. "Ah." He nodded and doffed his hat. "Thank you, landlord." He threaded his way through the tables until he reached the man who was, beyond all doubt, the one who'd offered him work the night before.

Wheatley looked up and lifted his tankard in salute, smiling. "Ah, Doctor! I was hoping to see you tonight."

"May I?" said Watson, indicating the chair opposite the man.

"By all means."

Watson lowered himself slowly into the seat, wincing briefly at the steady throbbing in his shoulder and thigh. Bloody jezails… He looked up and met the other's contemplative brown gaze. "The Queen's shilling," Watson said slowly and solemnly, "can be taken at a very high price indeed."

Wheatley's expression softened in sympathy. "I can't even imagine."

Watson wondered whether the man was merely a good actor or truly as decent as he seemed. Of course, he remembered how Colonel Moran had appeared to be the soul of gentlemanly good spirits, and Inspector MacDonald had himself remarked on how Professor Moriarty had seemed to be a kind, fatherly man. _And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light,_ Watson reminded himself. No, as much as he wished he could like Wheatley, he could not allow himself to do so.

"Well, Doc," Wheatley continued in a brighter tone, "have you taken any thought as to my proposition?"

Watson sighed heavily—as much to calm his racing heart as to give the impression of surrender. "I have." He turned his gaze down to his boots and shook his head. "I don't see as I have much choice. And… and I daresay you told me the truth when you said that most of my patients would be men in similar straits." He allowed his soldierly posture to droop a little. "I… I wish to help them."

Without warning, Wheatley slapped the table, making Watson jump. "By George, Doctor, that's fine! If it's the deserving poor you wish to treat, then it's the deserving poor you'll get!"

Watson looked up—the man's brown eyes glittered with triumph. "Don't you swindle me in this, man," Watson warned, every inch now the soldier that had faced down the Ghazis in the forsaken deserts of Afghanistan. "I'll be an angel of mercy, but I shan't risk my neck for men who deserve nothing more than the rope."

Wheatley smirked. "You're speaking with one such man." He held up a hand at Watson's growing thundercloud of an expression. "Peace, Doctor. Very well. I'm quite certain we can accommodate you."

"Might I ask who 'we' are?" Watson asked with completely justified curiosity.

Wheatley's pallid face turned thoughtful once more. "'We' are no less than the backbone of London, my good man. 'We' are the men who give the poor a better helping hand than charity, and we extend our aid to kings when they need it. Scarcely an action is taken in this great city that won't be known to us by week's end."

Watson could not help but be chilled by the description of Moriarty's empire that was probably entirely accurate. He shivered visibly. "Such an organisation could scarcely be possible. It would require… heavens, no less than an absolute genius to mastermind such a thing."

The other man's contemplative countenance hardened. "Perhaps that is so, but it is a belief you'd best keep to yourself, Doctor. I've taken a liking to you, y'see, and I wouldn't wish any harm to befall you because you weren't careful."

Watson's thick eyebrows knitted together. "What are you afraid of, man?" Although he had an _intellectual_ understanding of the terror Moriarty held over his subordinates, Watson's _heart_ could scarcely comprehend it. The nearest he came to fathoming it all was the living nightmare he was working hard to forget: the corpse in New Scotland Yard's mortuary, flayed, burnt, eviscerated…

_Holmes_…

Wheatley smiled without any warmth. "You'll understand it soon enough, Doctor. You'll fear just like the rest of us. There isn't a man in his right senses who would not fear a god."

* * *

><p>"Here we are, Little Detective." A hand gently strokes his cheek—he shudders away from the touch. He shudders away from all physical contact now. The merest brush of a hand sets his mind afire with memories he shall spend the rest of his short life trying to forget…<p>

It is no whip, poker, or cudgel that is held up before his eyes this time. It is a long loop of rope.

He scrabbles backwards, his heart crashing in his throat. Two sets of hands grab his arms and hold tight against his feeble thrashing. He hears a sound that is somewhere between a moan and a whimper… a moment later, he realises that the voice is his own.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, the loop is lowered around his head, around his neck… He thrashes still, as would any man threatened by that time-honoured method of execution: the noose. Then the rope is pulled tighter with excruciating slowness…

He panics.

He writhes, bucks, arches his back. He'll do anything to avoid being strangled by this noose. No matter that he will end his days in this cell—he shan't end this way, done to death like a common criminal. He shan't!

His cries become choked noises as the rope tightens and he feels his windpipe slowly crushed. He gasps as his lungs burn without sustaining oxygen. His hands claw frantically at air. His vision blackens. _No, no, _no…

The pressure around his neck suddenly ceases, and he collapses in his captors' hold, gulping in marvellous breaths of foetid air. The sweetest fragrance of the country was never more precious.

"How many men have you sent to the gallows, Little Detective, hmm?" his tormentor asks genially. He receives a staggering blow to his gut; his answering cry is drawn-out and strangled. "Now you have a sense of the terror they felt," the man continued, his voice lowering with malice, "the pain they experienced before they were stretched out like animals. Dangling there not for justice, but for the pleasure of the crowd. You of all people must know the crowds that are drawn to hangings. Such an exciting spectacle. Do you ever… enjoy it?"

Shivering, he can only shake his head. In the murky light, he just makes out the man's cruel smile before the rope limp round his neck is suddenly pulled taut again. He thinks he shrieks, but he isn't quite sure. Above the roar in his ears, he hears the man hiss, "I should make you choke this way again and again and again and again…"

The noose goes slack, and he can breathe, and _Watson, where _are_ you? Oh, dear God, make them _stop…

"…once for every man you've sent to swing."

The rope goes tight again but leaves him just enough time to cry out one word: "Watson!"

* * *

><p>Mercifully, John Watson could not know what was befalling his friend. If he had, there would have been no telling how long his sanity would have held out. Instead, his waking hours were filled with a steady stream of patients—most of them men, but several children, as well—in a miserable little flat in Stepney. At least it was clean, for a wonder, and the air was not as bad as it could have been, considering the location.<p>

The men he treated truly were broken souls, poor devils pushed to crime out of sheer desperation. It broke Watson's heart. Always, the poor would exist, and, as long as they did so, many of their number would turn to crime as a means of survival. Some of the men shed silent tears—not in pain, but in humiliation. In despair.

Watson would weep with them.

Sometimes, he recognised tokens of former affluence. Sometimes, he caught other glimpses of former lives, lives whose origins he could only guess at. He thought of Holmes, often, for Holmes would have been able to deduce the sad histories of these men.

The children seemed little more than shells, hollow and devoid of emotion. He had seen the look in several Irregulars, but every one of Holmes's band had overcome their complete apathy to life. Watson knew that, without such an influence as Holmes's in the lives of these little ones, they would never rise to catch the faintest glimmer of hope.

And so he wept over them, as well.

One boy—he didn't know the name, he was never told—frowned slowly at the tear that landed on his white little hand, as if he did not quite know how to use the muscles in his face for expression. "Wot yew cryin' fer, Doc?" he said in a hoarse, unused voice.

Watson wanted to speak but could not do so past the appallingly large lump in his throat. Instead, he carefully gathered the little one in his arms, mindful of the child's broken arm, and held him close to his chest. The boy remained stiff in his arms, and he knew the child had never been embraced in his life. Watson cried out and pressed his cheek to the dirty head, staring heavenward as if his gaze could pierce ceiling and sky straight up to where he'd always believed a loving Father existed and watched over His creation. "Dear God, give this boy hope!" he cried from the deepest part of his soul.

The boy broke away and stared at him in confusion and wonder. Watson merely finished bandaging the wounded arm and sent the lad on his way. He then informed the girl acting as his maid that he would be seeing no more patients that day.

* * *

><p>Annie Lestrade had been married to her husband for nearly thirteen years now, and she had long since been accustomed to her family's privacy being intruded upon at all hours. But when she opened the door to a desperate pounding, she was utterly taken aback to see the woman who dripped on the doorstep. "Mary!" Annie cried, pulling the girl in and shutting the door after her. "Ach, you'll catch your death of pneumonia yet!"<p>

Mary Watson, bedraggled and soaked to the bone, looked very much as if she'd _walked_ all the way from Lower Camberwell, ludicrous though the very notion was. She made no protest as Annie hustled her into the kitchen. Geoffrey, bless him, gave their unexpected visitor the merest glance, both assessing and respectful, before he shooed the children out of the room—he too was well-practised at responding to people who needed the aid of his spouse. He gave Annie a swift, encouraging smile before leaving the room himself and shutting the door behind him.

"I'm dreadfully sorry to impose, Annie," Mary began, but Annie would have none of it.

"Shh," she admonished, fixing her guest a cup of tea. "You look much the walking dead, darling. What brings you here? I thought John had sent you off to Mrs. Forrester's?"

Mary shivered, and Annie swept off her shawl and draped it around the younger woman. The English girl's large blue eyes gazed desperately up at her hostess. "Annie," she said slowly, carefully, "have you ever… have you ever just _known_, instinctively, that your husband was in trouble?"

Annie pulled a chair and sank into it, gradually, as memories washed over her. "Yes," she murmured. "I have." She met the blue gaze squarely with her own dark one. "Mary, if ever you have that instinct, if you have it right now, pray for all that you're worth. The times that I have… felt… such an instinct, have been times that Geoffrey was in the deepest trouble."

Mary's already-bloodshot eyes began to brighten with unshed tears. "Annie… Oh, Annie, I cannot understand how you can endure it!"

Feeling tears prick her own eyes, Annie pulled her friend into a close embrace. She knew well that anguish—every woman married to the Yard did. "My dearest Mary… only by the grace of God."

"I had to come," Mary sobbed, her voice muffled. "I _had_ to. I could not get John out of my head today, and I felt as though my heart could break. I still do. Annie, I could never live the life you live—it would drive me mad. I can be strong for John when I can reflect his strength back to him, but on my own…"

"Shh." Annie rocked Mary in her arms as she would one of her children. "I know," she whispered. "I know. On our own, our strength is never enough."

* * *

><p>John Watson and Davy Wiggins performed admirably in their roles. Wiggins acted with all the street-wise cunning encouraged by his mentor, quietly and cautiously destroying the finances of the gang employing him. It was not difficult. Just small increments here and there, a little extra debt owed, a little extra bribe paid…<p>

Oh, and he'd already informed Patterson of several corrupt officers in the ranks of Scotland Yard. Lestrade's concerned impatience was grimly sated by Wiggins's good work.

Watson sent no telegrams after apprising Patterson and Wiggins of his successful infiltration, but Wiggins sent the doctor a message once a day. It was often light-hearted nonsense, but the Irregular knew that Watson needed that thread connecting him to his true life. Wiggins had seen good men break beneath the strain of being something they were not, and, though he knew Watson was strong, he also knew that every man had his breaking point.

Watson never came right out and thanked Wiggins for this small kindness, but the gratitude was understood between the two of them. Wiggins understood ever afterwards that Watson's period of acting, short though it was, was a nightmare he wanted never to relive.

Watson did not end his habit of visiting The Ebon Stag. Now more than ever, he needed a pint at the end of the day, and he could scarcely care less at the quality of the ale. Sometimes Wheatley was there, sometimes he wasn't. But always there were Moriarty's men, and some of them, he suspected, were fairly high-placed. That was exactly what he needed.

About a week into his work, he was sitting with the other men in Moriarty's empire as per custom now when he heard Holmes's name. He just restrained himself from starting and looking up, but he threw all his concentration into listening to the conversation on the other side of the table.

"'E was bloody hard t' take down, Oi kin tell yew that," one man slurred in response to another's question. "Wild as an unbroke stall'un."

Watson stopped himself from giving a small, awful smile.

The speaker burst out laughing. "Shoulda seen 'im crumple all up loike paper! All bloodied an' bruised, 'e was, an' 'e just collapsed there on the street!" The man had no idea that he had just made a retired army surgeon decide upon, for the first time in his life, a premeditated killing.

The other men around the table roared with laughter. "So much for Mr. Sherlock Uppity Holmes!" another man guffawed.

The speaker sniggered, nearly choking on his drink. Watson almost wished he would. Almost. "'E didn't beg or plead, mind'ee—too proud fer that, o'course—but 'e shore did struggle b'neath the chloroform. It was _luverly_."

Watson's vision went red, and he found that he had difficulty in breathing. He clenched his hands beneath the table so tightly that Mary, had she been there, would have feared serious injury.

"I hear tell," another man interposed, "that Holmes is, ahem, serving time for his crimes."

The man that had been among those to capture Holmes lifted his tankard in salute. "Oi've 'eard such, mate. They say 'e won't 'old out much longer, an' good riddance to 'im. Blimey, but 'e's really angered—" here his voice dropped—"them wot's 'igher up."

There was a general murmur of agreement, a pall falling over the group at the obscurest mention of their master. _"There isn't a man in his right senses who would not fear a god."_ Watson cast his gaze down to the floor and set his teeth. He might have said a prayer of gratitude for this new lead had not so much rage simmered in his heart, threatening to boil over.

He was already moved away from the table and waiting in the impenetrable shadows when his quarry staggered past him to leave the tavern. Watson slipped out the door after the man and followed him to what was, conveniently, a very deserted alley. Then he sprang his trap.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

_Le gasp!_ What's this? A cliffhanger? How evil of the author!

Ahem. Anyway, let me warn you right now that the continuation of this scene will not be pretty. Watson is a doctor, but he's also a soldier—and, more than that, _Holmes is his closest, dearest friend_. And Watson is very, _very_ angry. Frighteningly so. Speaking of Watson, writing the scene with the little boy broke my heart. It really did. There were so many children just like that in that time… in _every_ time, _every_ age of history, even today.

The scene with Annie and Mary was kind of a last-minute thing, but I wanted to get in a brief scene with Mary since we won't see her again for a while. It's also something of a foreshadowing. Oh, and I can't wait to write more of Annie Lestrade.

The scene with Holmes was difficult to write, emotionally and technically. I hope I got across well enough that his mental/emotional state really has massively deteriorated, because we're about to circle back to the events of the prologue. You might recognize the scene as being from _Deliver Us from Evil: In One Hundred Sentences_.

Next week… one big emotional ride for us all. Not only is today's closing scene continued, but… at last we come to the chapter you've all probably been waiting for and dreading. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	18. 17: These Darkest Hours

**Author's Note:**

Well, here we are. *shivers* This entire chapter is really _not_ going to be pretty. Btw, a couple of notes on Kindle and this book:

A. I am not going to release this book on Kindle if I can help it. I am going to try MX Publishing.

B. Amazon has several FREE, DOWNLOADABLE Kindle programs for computers, iphones, ipads, etc. One need not have a handheld Kindle reader to have Kindle itself… and Kindle ebooks.

C. If you're patient, you just might be able to buy AMM in hardcover from MX Publishing. It will be something of a special edition if I can pull it off.

As a quick note, check out www . aleineskyfire . deviantart . com …I've just uploaded an entry for a Granada art contest, and I'd love for you all to see it! It's a scene from STUD, with Holmes, Watson, Gregson, and Lestrade—enjoy!

As _another_ quick note, _also_ check out my blog: www . studysherlockiana . blogspot . com …There are some new posts there that I think you'll find most interesting!

**To my reviewers:**

Historian1912: Re AMM: Yay! Thank you! *hugs* As far as other works go… check out the latest blog post. And don't let your jaw hit your chest _too_ hard. ;D

Ranger-Nova: Let me start by saying—thank you for reading this! *hugs* =) I'm so glad you love it so much! Now, as for your reviews themselves… ahem, prepare for a very _looong_ review reply!

1st Review: I'm so glad you think this story is "spot on," "good enough to be published," etc.—I'm trying very hard to get everybody right and stay close to the Canon. And, yes, only with more emotion. ^_^ Aw, I'm so glad you liked Victor Savage! When I was writing him, I was very much going for creating a likeable character in him. As I said in the Chapter 3 A/N: "Neither Granada nor the BBC radio drama are very sympathetic to the poor man: the former has him as an opium addict, and the other as a spoiled brat." I wanted very much to break away from that, to make his death a heartbreaking event. So glad you loved the scene with the Yarders—it's still one of my favorites! Also glad that you think each one is unique, because I was trying very hard for that. Also glad you love Mary, both in this story and in the Canon—poor girl just doesn't get enough love.

2nd Review: I haven't gone through self-doubt/depression in a while, but it's something that kind of comes and goes. I think it's just part of my artistic personality, and I say that with a complete lack of arrogance—many artistic people tend to get depressed. Anyway… glad you liked the DYIN parts. And isn't it amazing just how _much_ sense Holmes having gotten sick for real in DYIN makes? I just can't look at that story the same way ever again. Ha-ha, another reader in the "Patterson's creepy" camp—which is just fine. Personally, I get a lot of amusement out of people's reactions to him. Glad you think Watson, Lestrade, Wiggins, and Mycroft awesome! And I'm really glad you like the flashback with Annie Middleton! Hmm, I'm sorry that the jumps to present tense throw you off… I'll have to see if I can work at that without giving it up (which I absolutely won't do—I like the switches). ^_^

3rd Review: Your comments on Chapter 11 made me happy. =) Anyway, thank you for all the support, and hope you enjoy! God bless! (And happy belated St. Patty's to you, too!)

MadameGiry25: Ooo, you're right about that sentence—it _is_ kinda verbose. I'll work it, shouldn't take much. Actually, we don't get to see much of Watson undercover, just because the pacing and the timeline itself don't allow for much—but I'll see if I can squeeze in a little extra in the final version. Glad you liked that "god" line! =) …Eep, I'm staying beneath my desk! *ducks again* Glad you liked the scene between Mary and Annie so much! Like I said, I can't wait to do more with Annie Lestrade in the future—I might even update _Tales from the Great Hiatus_ soon with an Annie story I did for my online course. Very glad you think I'm sufficiently getting Holmes's mental deterioration across. Hmm, I'll see what I can do for that scene. Thanks for everything, as always, and hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter XVII==<strong>

**These Darkest Hours**

They call him their Little Detective.

He vaguely recalls another name, one which he thinks once belonged to him. _Holmes_. He also thinks there was more to that name, though his weary mind is confused as to whether it was _Sherlock_ or _My Dear_.

His is a shadowy, uncertain existence, all but bereft of light and sound.

In waking, there is pain. Waves of pain undulating and crashing through his body with deafening roars, myriads of colours flashing before blind eyes.

In slumber, there are nightmares. Teasing fragments of a time from before this place, beloved voices, half-recalled faces. What hurts more than the physical pain is that he is losing the images of those dearest to him.

This is not life. That much he knows, though he can scarcely recall what _life_ is like. His existence in its entirety has narrowed to the unending pain and infinite darkness. He had a life beyond this blackness, he thinks, but he remembers it only as one remembers snatches of a dream from long ago. He cannot hold out forever.

_(What am I holding out _for_ in the first place?)_

An image will tease his mind's eye, something half-remembered but his strongest memory. All in shades of brown it is, the only colour he can remember anymore. He thinks that these shades of brown made him feel safe once. He wants that safety back.

_(Watson, wasn't it? Watson was brown, Watson made him feel safe…)_

With whatever is left of himself, he wants it back.

He hates this darkness. It once served its purpose as a tool, a cover beneath which he could slip when he traversed London unnoticed, but, beyond that, darkness and he have no kinship. The night is the realm of the lawbreaker and the evildoer, and it is _(was, never shall be again)_ his business to shine light into that blackness and reveal such men. He has no kinship with the dark.

Rather, he did not until now, for darkness now comprises his very existence.

* * *

><p>Watson's quarry dropped with a well-placed blow to the back of the head. Propelled by a sense of urgency he hardly understood himself, Watson had the man bound hand and foot and thrown over his good shoulder like a sack before depositing him into the back of a rented dogcart. Then it was off to the riverfront.<p>

* * *

><p>"The Professor." So long ago it seems, since he first heard that title from the lips of a dying man. So very long ago… almost an eternity.<p>

_(another man's existence, not mine, not mine)_

Sherlock Holmes—Sherlock is the name, he's certain now—would never let himself break, would never let himself be taken so easily in the first place. He is not that man. He is not.

_(Sherlock had his Watson, I have no one, I am alone, I am no one, I am alone)_

"_Those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted."_

The words spring out of nowhere in his mind as he is roughly dragged to his feet by two pairs of strong hands. _(not indignant anymore, can't be, merely routine, perhaps Sherlock Holmes might have been, he was not him, he was not him, he was not him)_ He recognises that he _should_ know from whence those words came, but the memory floats just beyond his drugged grasp, taunting his inability to pull his faculties together and seize it.

_Those dark hours…_

How terribly fitting.

This, then, is the end of the game.

* * *

><p>The dock that Watson had chosen was deathly quiet. The mighty Thames itself never slept, but most of the men who made their living upon it had deserted it by the wee hours of the morning. Especially now, in early December, with the chill of winter having already arrived. Only a man with a mission would will himself to venture down into the damp cold of the riverfront.<p>

Watson's shoulder and thigh protested vehemently at his choice of location. For once, his anger, which had steadily been growing hotter and brighter, was enough to make him ignore them. And… and that nagging feeling that he had to _hurry_.

The ruffian was just returning to groggy, profane consciousness when they arrived. Watson easily hoisted the man out of the cart and threw him onto the planks. His prisoner retaliated with some of the vilest language Watson had heard in a long time.

"Enough," the doctor hissed, skewering the man with a glare that would have made the Great Detective himself freeze. "I want you to tell me what has been done with Sherlock Holmes."

The other man's only response was more profanity.

Watson gritted his teeth. "Where was Holmes taken?"

"Why? Yew one of 'is friends?" the man sneered. The sneer faded a moment later, and the eyes went wide, for Watson slowing drawing a hypodermic needle out of his Gladstone.

"Do you see this needle?" Watson murmured menacingly. "Have you any idea what is in it?"

The wretch tried to scrabble away from the vengeful army surgeon before him, but with his wrists and ankles bound, he could not get very far. "Now… now, guv, Oi'm sure we kin—"

Watson eyed the needle with disinterest. "It's aconite. An especially fast-working version of it. You might know it better by the name _wolfsbane_."

"Cor, Doc, 'ave a 'eart!"

Watson saw red again, but, this time, there was nothing holding him back. He stepped forward and delivered a stunning blow across the man's face. "How _dare_ you plead for mercy," Watson all but roared through a raw throat, "when you showed _none_ to a good man!"

"Oi was under orders, same's the rest!" the wretch shrieked, cowering.

Shifting the hypodermic to his left hand, Watson used his right to pull the man up by the collar 'til their faces were mere inches apart. "Where. Is. Holmes?" Each word was strangled, bit out. Watson had never in his life wanted so badly to kill a man.

"The Colonel 'as 'im!" the criminal cried. "The Colonel an' 'is own men took 'Olmes with 'em!"

"_Where?_"

"Oi don't know!" the man blurted in terror. "Nobody does! They wouldn't tell the loikes o' me!"

Watson smiled coldly. "I don't believe you," he whispered.

The man swallowed hard and looked about him wildly, caught between his terror of the doctor holding him and the Colonel should Moran find out. Watson's expression hardened further, and he brought the tip of the needle to rest lightly on the forearm. The ruffian began to scream. "Guv, please—"

"Do you know what will happen if I inject you with this aconite?" Watson said coldly.

"'_E'll kill me!_"

So Watson proceeded to tell the man, very calmly and clinically, _exactly_ what would happen if the aconite entered his bloodstream.

"Somewhere's in Whitechapel!" the man half-screamed, half-sobbed. "Oi don't know where!"

Whitechapel. Watson felt his heart sink to the vicinity of his stomach—Scotland Yard could scour Whitechapel forever and never find Moriarty's most important prisoner. He took a deep breath. "Who are the Colonel's own men?"

"They was army blokes! Oi don't know their names—Oi don't know as any o' us did!"

Army men. Watson stared at his prisoner. Would they have been subordinates in Moran's regiment, or could they even be members of the Tankerville Club? Watson shook the man. "Is that all you know of the affair? Think, man, think!"

"Oi don't know an'more than wot Oi said at the Stag, Oi swear! An' now Moran'll kill me! Feed me t' 'is dogs, 'e will!"

Watson's answer was as cold as the wilds of Siberia. "I assure you, that will not happen." He did not even have to weigh his options. If he took the man to Scotland Yard, there was a more than even chance that Moriarty would learn of what had happened, and the game would be up. Killing the man and having done with it certainly went against the principles drilled into medical students, but Watson was not a doctor only. He was a soldier. And this man was the enemy.

"Doc?"

Watson deliberately dropped the syringe and drew his revolver, cocking it.

"Oi! Don't—guv, don't—"

Watson held him so close that they were nose to nose. His hazel eyes, blazing with a pure, righteous wrath, could have burnt twin holes straight through the man's head. "If your master's actions destroy him whom I regard as—" he nearly choked on the lump that had materialised suddenly in his throat—"as the _best_ and _wisest_ man I have _ever_ known… make no mistake that I shall hunt down, to a man, _everyone_ who played a part in his destruction."

He threw the man down once more and aimed for the heart, firing. The report of the gun reverberated across the water. He contemplated the corpse before him. Holmes had once said that the surest way to cover up a killing was to burn the body. Watson fished a packet of matches from his pocket—the Thames would not tell the tale of the ashes it would bear down to the sea.

As he watched the body burn, the thought occurred to him that he had never before shot a man in cold blood. But he thought of the torment his dearest friend must be enduring, also committed in cold blood. He did not regret his actions at all.

* * *

><p>Something hard and hot traces its way along his skin, sending slashes of pain like knives through him. Something else, cold and heavy, connects with his side, setting every nerve in his body aflame with agony. His heart crashes against his ribcage so forcefully that it is a wonder it does not burst out of him altogether.<p>

He cannot even see. The world is a haze of blood-soaked shadows, whether his eyes are open or shut.

Through this existence of torment, a voice penetrates to his very soul. It is kind, this voice—soothing and benign. Mesmerizing, even.

"Sherlock. My dear boy."

It is not the voice of his brother, nor is it the voice of his dearest friend. Some small part of him is able to realise this. It is this part which warns him that, although he knows the voice, he should not trust it.

"Sherlock, let me end this."

_(why shouldn't I trust it, this hurts, this hurts so terribly, I only want it to _stop_)_

"My dear fellow, you were ferreting out a smuggling ring in Rotherhithe. You had aid. I need to know what you do about that gang, about the person assisting you."

Why does it ask about that? He can hardly even recall—those memories belong to another man, another life, far away from this darkness and pain… if such a thing is possible.

"I shall take that information to Scotland Yard while you heal."

Something that he vaguely identifies as a hand—his brain conjures up the word, but he can scarcely remember what a hand _is_—brushes against his cheek, and he whimpers. It _hurts_. The voice continues, and he _thinks_ the hand is connected to the voice. Why won't it stop touching him? Can't it see it's hurting him? He writhes feebly on a cold, hard surface, and the pressure on his cheek intensifies.

_(dear God, I can't take… I can't… I…)_

A shrill, piercing noise rips its way from his mouth. He _screams_. He screams until his already-raw throat burns in a way he once would not have thought possible and his voice gives out, and still he screams.

* * *

><p>Watson staggered into his flat, clutched at his chest, short of breath. The sense of urgency he'd felt whilst trussing up his victim had been steadily growing on him, until now, when he could scarcely move for the feeling of being drained of his very essence.<p>

Something was terribly wrong.

He lowered himself to his good knee beside the bed and began to pray as he had never prayed before.

* * *

><p>"Shh, Sherlock, shh," the voice soothes. "Your pain can end. I simply need to know who your informant is, and the location of your records for this case. That is all. Hush now. Hush now and come with me. Come with me. Come with me."<p>

He wants so terribly to yield to that voice. To leave this infinite darkness which has trapped him—_suffocated_ him—for so long. To be _free_.

But.

But a small piece of _himself_ remains. Not this wretched, frail creature he has become, but the man with the swift, brilliant mind who takes life to be an exercise in intellect, a puzzle to be forever worked upon and never solved. The man with an appalling quantity of self-confidence who guards a great heart jealously and allows others to glimpse at it only on occasion—save for one man who not only glimpses at that heart but _understands_ it.

This remnant of himself _knows_ that if he yields, he will lose.

The veil of crimson is fading away, as are the voice and the pain, all swallowed by that omnipresent blackness. There is not much time left for him, that small piece of himself realises.

_(so be it, I _want_ to go, I want…)_

If he must, he will take his knowledge with him to the grave. He shall not sell his immortal soul to buy his mortal existence. His victory lies in death.

Gradually, something soft and… _golden_… bleeds into his vision, and his brain works for a minute before it can put a name to the phenomenon.

_Sunlight_.

It is bright and pure and warm, and it reaches out to him. He will follow it. He knows, and he is ready…

Until he hears a voice. It is not the voice from before—this new voice is completely different. It is exhausted and thick with tears. And it is pleading.

"Dear God, I confess that I have not been a man of much prayer in the past. I apologise with all my heart, for now, I know not what else to do."

This voice is keeping him from that light. But he stays where he is because he wants to know why he is hearing that voice, who it is, what it will say.

"He has been missing for so long. And, all night long, I have had this dreadful sense that… something horrific is befalling him. I cannot ignore it. I cannot believe otherwise. Please, dear Father, let him live. Bring him back to me. I have lost so many whom I have loved. Please, You must not take _him_, as well. You mustn't. I _need_ him. We all need him. Please. Dear God in Heaven, _please_."

He places a name to the voice at last, and realisation comes crashing down on him, breaking his heart.

_Watson_.

He knows he is one of the very few friends Watson has, and the only close friend. He cannot abandon his… Boswell?… this way. He will not.

He would have died for a secret. But he will live now, for a friend. He shuts his eyes, longing to look upon the light once more, longing to follow it.

But he_ shall not_.

Pleading for strength, Sherlock Holmes turns away from the light and wills himself to begin the long, hard trek back to a world of darkness. He does it for one who needs him more than Heaven does.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I have to go back and look up aconite, and if it doesn't work out, I'll substitute it with something else. Ahem, anyhow, did Watson scare anybody? He scared _me_. Beware The Nice Ones, TV Tropes says, after all.

Regarding Holmes's scenes… with the exception of the opening scene, readers of AMM online from a year ago (already!) should recall this sequence of scenes. Originally, it was all one installment, for the prompt "Light" and a sequel to the previous installment "Dark". Yes, the whole thing has been seriously amped up since then. If you want to go back to the very roots of this book, the entire novel was to give this story arc from AMM—dubbed the "torture series" by _mi madre_—a setting, a place in the timeline of Holmes's life. When I first wrote "Light," it was, at the time, just about the best piece of fiction I'd ever written. I certainly hope I've come far since then.

Here're the comments I made on "Light" when I first uploaded it: "Wow. I haven't written anything like this in a _long_ time. Not only have I _not_ lost my touch, I've gotten _better_! *whoops* I actually love this one. Seriously." …Apparently, my love was justified. It remains one of the highest-reviewed pieces among AMM's 50 online installments.

Oh, and one more thing: for months now, I've debated on whether or not to make Holmes's scenes in this chapter first-person or not. For the present, I decided to stick with third-person, but I still wonder if first-person would be stronger. Comments, anyone?

I hope to update next week, but I make no promises—the next chapter has been giving me issues. In the meantime, you can simply jump ahead in the story a chapter or two by going to Chapter 19 "Rescue" of _At the Mercy of the Mind_ (the FFN version)—it's the basic gist of what you'll eventually be getting here in _Mortality_. Really! I won't mind a bit if you do check it out!

_**Please review!**_


	19. 18: Upon a Knife's Edge

**Author's Note:**

Hot dog! Five reviews in less than seventy-two hours! Haven't gotten that in a long time…

Before I apologize for being late, let me really quick address the issue of Holmes's POV, since so many people responded to that A/N last time. All your points in favor of third-person POV are very valid, and I'll stick with it in that chapter. I was just undecided, 'specially since first-person worked so well in the prologue. Thank you all for your help, and now to our regularly-scheduled program…

Dreadfully sorry to keep you all waiting, but I was having such trouble with this chapter. For one thing, Moran didn't want to cooperate at first; for another thing, my life has just been crazy lately. Seriously, you have no idea just how crazy. It's been difficult to do any kind of serious writing, period. *sighs*

On the upside, however, I've discovered that one of my cousins is now completely a Sherlockian. She's more into _Sherlock_ than anything else, but she's still a full Sherlockian. *cheers* So we've been talking about different stuff, including the possibility of doing a podcast _and_… doing a Sherlock comic on deviantART. We're both really excited about the latter idea.

Which reminds me—you probably have her to thank for this chapter finally being uploaded. It was through her that I finally got to watch the second season of _Sherlock_, and the last episode gave me the drive to finish this chapter. I cried. Oh, I cried at the last scene of _The Reichenbach Fall_. Even though I knew what was going to happen… it was a far more emotional journey than Granada's "The Final Problem". Sorry, fellow Brett fans, but it's true. And that's what I needed. I needed to be able to feel that deeply once again for John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. So here's the new chapter.

**To my reviewers:**

Peaceful Defender: Thank you so much! I love Holmes's "death scene," and I'm so glad you liked it so much. And, oh, I'm not saying that Watson was wrong or that I wouldn't have given him a medal, myself! Not at all! In fact, it was really cathartic to write what happened between him and the nameless criminal. What I meant was that, considering how warm and kind-hearted Watson is by nature, it _was_ a little scary to see him turn into this hard, cold soldier—scary, but wonderful, and it was still our Watson. The man _did_ deserve it, absolutely. Probably deserved a lot more. It was a terrific scene to write, and I'm glad you think it was fantastic. =) Well, Holmes can't be rescued _that_ quickly, but hopefully this chapter's content will mollify you, somewhat. As far as Watson killing a couple more evil minions, weeell… I can't say if that will happen again, but I can say that even _Lestrade_ wouldn't have a problem in joining him. Shee-veesh, you just don't mess with Sherlock Holmes! His friends are so very protective! ^_^

Ranger-Nova: Ha-ha, nice… *giggles really hard for some reason… must still be tired…* Thanks for all the love, darlin'! God bless!

StarCatcher1858: Thank you very much! As far as the published work goes… if I can get the book to the publisher I want, you can order their books online. I completely understand the expensive bit—right now, I'm a pauper author with hardly any money to my name at all! If the printed book will be too expensive for you, there's always the possibility of a Kindle version, which would be markedly less expensive. And just let me emphasize that you do NOT need a Kindle to get Kindle ebooks—you only need a Kindle _program_ on your PC. You can _download_ it for absolutely _free_ on Amazon. Again, thanks so much!

Rachel G: Of course, there're words! There're always words!... ;D Thanks. I'm glad you enjoyed it. =)

MadameGiry25: Heh, you said "nice," too! *giggles again* Effective is good—I like effective. =) Glad you liked the brown bit. Also glad that those three opening sentences for Watson worked so well. I wasn't really opting for any specific reaction in my readers when it came to Watson's vengefulness—I was simply working with what I _knew_ Watson would do. I knew he'd do it. Like I said above, he turned into this cold, hard soldier, and he was still our Watson. Aconite… yeeeaaah… I still have to look it back up and see again what exactly it does to the body, 'cause I don't remember! *laughs embarrassedly* I picked aconite because I knew it was something that physicians carried with them, and it's one of the few poisons I know anything about, period. Once I work it all out, I will rewrite that section so that we can hear Watson telling the man in scary detail. ^_^ Regarding lengthening the Watson bits… erm, I don't know. For now, they work really well for me, so… *shrugs* Really glad you liked the back-and-forth, though! Ha-ha, I used to do the same with flashbacks, too! Not sure why I don't, anymore, hmm… A thousand apologies for my laxity in reviewing _Ghost Map_! It's like, every time I try, I feel all drained—probably because I owe several different people reviews on their stories. *sighs* It's a hard life. ;-) Anyway, to wrap up: _thrilled_ you liked the last chapter so much, and do get reading AMM! It maybe kind of old-ish now, but AMM is _required_ reading for anybody wot's goin' t' attempt readin' my other Sherlockian works! It's the all-encompassing personal canon that all my other stuff gets based off of, and, sooner or later, every other story of mine has a piece of AMM embedded in it.

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><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter XVIII==<strong>

**Upon a Knife's Edge**

Watson has no sleep in the few hours until dawn. He merely lies abed, staring up at the ceiling and feeling mildly ill in his stomach. But, despite his dreadful restlessness, something has stirred to life in his breast once more, something he dares not even contemplate yet for fear of destroying it.

Hope.

John Hamish Watson has found that he can hope once more.

* * *

><p>When Dr. Watson showed up at New Scotland Yard in his disguise, Lestrade was prepared to commit the man to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He did not recognise the Doctor at first, and Watson truly looked feverish, possessed of pale, clammy skin and brilliant eyes. Watson's voice, however, was unmistakable, though it bore more than a hint of his quiescent Scottish brogue.<p>

"I've a lead on Holmes's location," he announced quietly to Lestrade and Patterson.

Lestrade found himself short of breath as a remarkable feeling welled up inside him. It was something like joy and hope and caution all together. He glanced at Patterson and, in another time, would have enjoyed the man's reaction, for he had never before seen his icy colleague nonplussed.

"You jest," was Patterson's initial, incredulous reaction, followed by… "You have been in the gang only a week."

Watson's expression hardened into something quite soldierly and undeniably _Watson_, uncomfortably different though he looked, dark-haired and clean-shaven. If Lestrade's constables thought him a holy terror, he shuddered to think of what _Watson's_ orderlies must have thought of _him_. "I believe Holmes would call it good fortune, and I certainly shan't argue with it."

"Where do you think he is?" Lestrade asked, as much to head off an argument between Watson and Patterson as to get an answer.

"In Whitechapel," Watson said with just a hint of dryness. He, of course, understood the problem of it as well as the inspectors did. "But that isn't all. I learnt that Moran has several soldiers under his thumb—whether men of his regiment or members of one of his clubs, I don't know."

Patterson looked thoughtful. "Well done, Doctor. That is certainly a piece of information worth discovering. You say that these men might belong to one of his clubs?"

"If it is so, it would be the Tankerville," Watson said with conviction. "It is solely for the officers who take the Queen's shilling."

Patterson nodded slowly. "You wish one of us to accompany you to this club."

Watson cocked his head. "I would prefer Lestrade, if it is all the same to you, Patterson. Lestrade and I have worked together in disguise before."

Patterson gave another nod. "Of course."

"I should like nothing better, Doctor," Lestrade said decisively. "We would go tonight, I take it."

"I've no guarantee that Moran shall be there tonight," Watson mused, "but, yes, we would go tonight, and I should like to leave here by half past six. I shan't rest while Holmes's life is still at risk." He appeared as if he had meant to say more and stopped himself from saying too much.

Nodding sharply, Lestrade wondered what it was but knew well by now that Watson would keep his own counsel as surely as Holmes would. "Tonight it is, then. Come round at five, and we'll prepare ourselves to enter the lion's den."

Watson gave a small smile that did not reach his eyes. "My dear Lestrade, have you ever considered a career in writing? You have a quite a way with words."

"If all our work turns out to be for naught," Lestrade said solemnly, "I shall seriously consider it." With all his heart, he wished dearly to succeed in discovering Holmes's location and rescuing him quickly. He did not know that he could endure the murder of Sherlock Holmes if it became a reality.

* * *

><p>Watson had scarcely paid full attention to his work all day. The most pathetic of his patients could not long dampen the anticipation, the anxiety, burning within him. By four o'clock, his "practise" was already closed, with him on his way to the Yard.<p>

Lestrade was waiting with changes of clothing. He had already begun to change himself—his pale skin was now as dark as Watson's. The effect was more than a little unsettling, no matter how many times Watson had seen Lestrade use it.

They dared not change Watson's appearance. If Moran and his confederates had not seen Dr. Davids, Watson was safest in the guise that Lestrade would not have quickly recognised had not Watson spoken. He needed to alter his voice, but he had been doing so since his childhood. He had long been proud of having a voice nearly as versatile as Sherlock Holmes's.

Their method of infiltration was absurdly simple. Watson had telegrammed Dick Sharon in the hopes that the man would be willing to take the two of them into the club as friends of his. He dared not attempt to involve Colonel Hayter, and he dared not explain the situation beyond that. Sharon had swiftly replied, saying that, if Watson needed help, he'd be a bloody sod not to give it to him.

Watson wondered at the man's finances, to be able to waste money on extra words for such sentiment.

"But can we trust this man?" Lestrade pressed.

Watson thought of Sharon, the man who'd given his name as _Dick_ because he thought _Richard_ too pretentious, the man who loved an Indian girl, the man who acted the part of the gallant but seemed to possess a heart of gold. "Yes," Watson said with finality. "We can trust him."

As the clock chimed six, a four-wheeler halted before New Scotland Yard, and Major Sharon was guided to Lestrade's office by Patterson. "Inspector Lestrade?" he queried, holding out his hand and glancing uncertainly between the two men.

Watson smiled grimly. "Sharon."

Sharon did a double-take. "My word, is that you, Watson? I shouldn't have recognised you but for your voice!"

Lestrade smirked. "Just the trouble I had earlier. Major Sharon, I am Inspector G. Lestrade."

Sharon turned to the little detective and pumped his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Inspector." He grinned. "After meeting Watson here, I decided to look up his _Study in Scarlet_ and _Sign of the Four_. You cut an interesting literary figure."

Lestrade did not quite groan, and Watson did not quite chuckle. But they each understood the other's intent. "Yes, well," said Watson, clearing his throat. "Sharon, if I might be allowed to explain the situation?"

"Do," Sharon urged, taking a chair. "I am all attention."

"Cigarettes, Major?" Lestrade offered. "You're in for quite a tale."

Sharon's vivid grey-blue eyes glanced between the other two men as he accepted a cigarette. "I believe it. But one question first, Watson—where is Mr. Holmes? I should have thought he would be here if you were involved with Scotland Yard."

Lestrade would not have believed that Holmes's disappearance could have hurt any worse than it already did, but an ache flared to life in his chest at Sharon's words. Pain flashed across Watson's exhausted features before he could stop it. "That," Watson said heavily, "is the reason for our mission tonight."

* * *

><p>As they drove to the Tankerville Club, Watson's mind would not be quiet. He thought of Sharon's shock upon being informed of Moran's true nature, his quiet outrage at Holmes's captivity, his almost fierce determination to help. He thought of the man whose name he did not even know but who had perished beneath Watson's service revolver. He thought of the rough laughter at the story of Holmes's capture. He thought of the magnificent tiger skin in the Tankerville, of the man who had killed it.<p>

And if Inspector Lestrade saw a strange brightness in the good Doctor's eyes, he did not remark upon it. He and Major Sharon both allowed Watson the privacy of his thoughts and turned their focus, instead, to the night's work.

It was simple enough, merely reconnaissance in disguise. The worst of it would be Lestrade's having to act like a military man, a task he did not relish. Of course, the fact remained that they were taking a gamble that Moran would be there, but Sharon said that the odds were in their favour. Moran had no clear pattern of visiting the club, but he was nearly always there two or three nights out of the week.

Now if only they could overhear vital information from Moran and his friends. The three men in the four-wheeler fervently hoped that Watson's streak of luck would hold out. They needed it.

* * *

><p>The Tankerville Club was as grandly-scaled and opulent as Watson remembered it. He and Lestrade could afford, however, to stare a bit at their sumptuous surroundings in order to fit their parts.<p>

Watson glanced at the little inspector, saw the crease in his brow, knew the cause of it. Lestrade was a simple man, a hardworking man, and he could not, for the life of him, understand the need for such luxury. Certainly not when he knew to what better uses the money could be put—knew better, perhaps, than any other man here, Watson included. Lestrade had walked a bobby's beat for ten years, had walked twenty miles a day, and continued to experience, first-hand, mankind at his most impoverished.

And here was an edifice to mankind at his wealthiest, at his greediest. The splendour that had once overwhelmed Watson now repulsed him entirely, for, looking through Lestrade's eyes, he could strip away the gilding to reveal the rot beneath.

It made acting the part of an awed newcomer deucedly difficult to accomplish.

"Old acquaintances of mine," Sharon introduced them to his little group of friends. He flashed his infamous roguish grin. "Stumbled upon them quite by chance at the Criterion the other day, thought they'd enjoy a visit here."

Not risking a glance of Lestrade for fear of bringing forth a fresh wave of negativity, Watson managed to smile, shake hands, and exchange genial pleasantries. Holmes would have been proud.

_Holmes_.

"_Shoulda seen 'im crumple all up loike paper! All bloodied an' bruised, 'e was, an' 'e just collapsed there on the street!"_

Watson found himself short of breath and trembling—he gripped a nearby chair and bent over it. _Dear God, _help_ me_…

"Steady there, old man!" Lestrade's dark eyes met Watson's hazel ones as the detective gripped the doctor's good arm and held him.

"My dear fellow!" Sharon exclaimed, concerned.

"Needs some air," Lestrade said in the no-nonsense tone of a man who was used to being obeyed. Which was perfectly true, if not in a military setting. "Come along, old friend." He aided Watson out of the main hall and into the nearest water closet. Lestrade kicked the door shut and whirled about, brown eyes flashing. "Doctor, would you care to explain your little spell?"

"Dreadfully sorry, Les," Watson gasped, unintentionally using Lestrade's nickname among his generation of Yarders. He gripped at his chest, still catching his breath. "Remembered something… bad memory…" He shook his head. A _very_ bad memory, one that he knew he would carry with him to his grave.

"All right, all right," Lestrade soothed. "I'm sorry. You gave me a scare."

Watson smiled feebly. "Gave myself a scare."

"Yes, well, we really should be getting back."

"Yes, we should." If only Watson could occupy his mind with their mission or otherwise, he would not think of the appalling night he'd had scarcely more than twelve hours before. "Now, Lestrade, about Moran…"

"I don't know that I should know him if I saw him," Lestrade said drily. "Never laid eyes on the man before, you see."

That surprised a chuckle out of Watson. "I think you'd know him if you saw him, Lestrade. The man has a presence."

The inspector's eyebrows rose. "Well, then, that limits our man to half the men in that room. Come along, let's get you back out there."

Watson nodded and matched his pace to the smaller man's as they returned to the main hall. The doctor's gaze slowly swept around the room, searching out every face, every figure. His hazel eyes came to rest on the glorious tiger skin he had so admired the last time he was here. Before that skin stood a tall man—broad shoulders, greying brown hair, drooping moustache, blue eyes, easy-going smile, self-confident stance.

Other men saw a genial old veteran, a hero, a paragon of the British army.

John Watson saw a monster, a creature of the night far more dangerous than any tiger he had ever hunted down. He saw the man who had ordered the capture and torture of Sherlock Holmes—Watson's dearest friend, the best and wisest man he'd ever known, a true hero… his brother.

The world veiled itself in crimson before Watson's eyes as his heart ceased to beat. He found himself once again wanting so very badly to kill a man… only he rather doubted the humanity of his desired target.

Lestrade's murmur lifted the veil, set Watson's heart beating again. "Burke." Watson's name incognito for the evening.

"Collins," Watson whispered back. "The tiger skin."

Lestrade shifted his position subtly so that he could look. Watson felt him stiffen. "I see him. And I see what you mean. His presence…"

Watson nodded slowly, then caught movement in his peripheral vision. "Here comes Sharon." He turned his gaze fully to Moran again…

Watson never remembered afterwards what Sharon said, nor did he remember Lestrade's response. He did remember Colonel Sebastian Moran standing there by his tiger skin, conversing and laughing with his fellow veterans, thoroughly enjoying himself. He did remember a cruel creation of his imagination: the sumptuous setting of the Tankerville overlaid with an image of a dungeon cell, a gaunt figure suspended from chains, crying out in pain… And Moran standing there, laughing at the writhing, _dying_ Sherlock Holmes.

Watson knew he would carry that mental image with him to his grave.

* * *

><p>Lestrade found himself well and truly concerned for John Watson. It was almost like working with a young, pre-'81 Sherlock Holmes all over again—the exhaustion, the debilitating flashes of memory, the overactive mind… Only, whereas the young Mr. Holmes had kept his emotions firmly locked away for the most part, Dr. Watson was a far more open man.<p>

"_I'd hate to think of Watson without Holmes. …where would we be if something happened to him? And just think of what it would do to Watson."_

Lestrade felt no triumph in having been proven right. Not at the expense of a man he felt honoured to call "friend."

Watson should not have been here tonight. Lestrade could have managed with Patterson and Sharon, or simply with Sharon. Watson need not have come… but then, there was no stopping the man when he was bound and determined to get his way.

So here they were now, Lestrade and Watson, tucked away in the darkness of the carriage house and waiting for Moran and his associates to appear. At least the presence of the horses seemed to soothe Watson's troubled spirit—in that, too, he resembled his friend. Watson was London-born, unlike Holmes, but Watson had been largely raised on the Scottish Lowlands. Both men, though perfectly adapted to city life, were country-bred.

Lestrade, on the other hand, was a Londoner through and through. Technically, he was even Cockney, born within hearing distance of St. Mary-le-Bow, though he'd long since lost the accent. The English countryside held little appeal for him—he needed the bustle, the smoke and fog, the dirt and grime of London. It made him alive as no other place could, save one: the sea. He was the son of a Breton moon-curser, a smuggler—the sea was simply in his blood.

A deep, authoritative voice pulled him out of his musings. Beside him, he felt Watson tense—glanced at him and saw the hazel eyes harden in the darkness.

"I've a meeting tonight in an hour," Moran was saying. He and three other men entered the dim gaslight of the building. "Have you any word yet of our guest's condition?"

"No, sir. Holmes must still be out cold—hardly surprising, sir."

Moran nodded thoughtfully. "He was put through much last night. It may be long before we can try him again—he very nearly died."

Lestrade was not aware that he was not breathing until he felt Watson tense so tightly that the man could have injured himself. He squeezed the man's good arm warningly and felt his own heart start to beat again. He'd heard men before now speak casually and callously of the pain of others, but never had it been of Sherlock Holmes.

When realisation hit, it nearly stopped his heart again. It was personal, now, this war against Moriarty. It was personal, because Lestrade cared about that idiot amateur, and cared very deeply.

"Should we return to -?" one of Moran's subordinates was saying.

Moran considered this for a moment only, the dim gaslight glinting in his deep blue eyes. "No. No, that would serve no purpose. Better that you come with me on the way to my meeting."

"Diverthion, motht likely," Watson lisped into Lestrade's ear. "He ith a profethional—he taketh the proper precauthionth."

Lestrade nodded, his gaze not leaving the soldiers standing but a few yards from them.

"Is it safe, do you think?" one of the men said abruptly.

Moran frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"Sherlock Holmes in our custody, and our inability to extract any information from him after all this time. Hasn't he friends in high places?"

Moran smiled grimly. "In the highest places, Thompson. But I think it _is_ safe, for now. Certainly, Holmes himself can't do us any harm. Have you seen the man lately?"

"I have," another man smirked. "That's a man what's just about broken, I'd say. Ought to be, considering the literally bloody mess he is."

Lestrade truly was one of the most professional of Yarders, and he had wanted only a few times in his life to shoot a criminal in cold blood. This was certainly one of those times. And he _felt_ Watson think the same.

Moran's smile grew utterly twisted, and Lestrade just could not understand how such a man could pass himself off as such an outgoing, lively gentleman. Made him think of something Annie had once said about the Devil, a verse in the New Testament… something about Satan appearing as an angel of light. Lestrade was sure he'd never fully understood that verse until now.

"Duty before pleasure, my boy," said Moran, the smile not leaving his face. "Come now, we've only an hour left before we leave."

The other men murmured "yes, sir" and followed him out. Lestrade and Watson turned to each other, and Watson shifted his position further to get his weight off his bad leg as much as possible. "Fancy yourself a bit of tracking tonight?" Lestrade whispered.

Watson shook his head. "I tracked Wiggins once recently, but only because I knew how the boy works when he's avoiding attention. I am a doctor, not a tracker—that's Holmes's department."

Lestrade snorted. "Not much of a tracker, myself. Wish now that we'd brought Patterson."

Watson nodded self-deprecatingly. "Foolish, foolish, _foolish_ of me."

"Oh, you weren't to know, Doctor," Lestrade soothed. "You can't predict these things as the Holmes brothers can. What of -? Do you know that street?"

"Do you?"

The two men gazed at each other in silence for a moment, then spoke in unison. "The Irregulars."

* * *

><p>He dreams tonight. He dreams of a young, discharged army surgeon, dreams of shaking his hand, saying, "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive." He dreams of that army surgeon throwing down a periodical in disgust and exclaiming, "What ineffable twaddle!"<p>

He dreams of that rich, warm baritone calling him by name, summoning him from his injury-induced slumber. But, unlike his previous dreams, he does not awake, sobbing. He remains wrapped in memories, memories that come much more clearly to him now.

For now, he is content.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

One quick note before I forget! Go read **Riandra**'s _A Study in Regret_—it's a terrific story! Very dark and tragic, but so very elegant. And review! That story deserves much more love than it's gotten, to date.

Okay, on to the normal A/N! I hope that last little scene made you Holmes sympathizers happy! …All right, I'm teasing. Seriously, I hope that helped not only Holmes but all you lovely people, as well. I wanted to write more with him, but even the end of the chapter takes place less than _twenty-four hours_ after Holmes's very close brush with death. It's just too soon to write anything major with him.

But, wow, what a long chapter! Once I finally got going, I finished it in one morning and ended up with a lot more material than I'd expected! It was lovely to write that much of Lestrade again, especially his realization that It's Personal Now.

Oh, and I just remembered: if you're confused by the whole Tankerville Club and Dick Sharon thing, _it's perfectly okay_. It's all the sequel to a sequence of scenes I wrote with Watson, Colonel Hayter, and Moran at the canonical Tankerville—the scenes are still currently without a specific place in the timeline, but they _will_ appear in the published book, probably as a chapter in their own right.

Patterson felt a bit dry and lifeless to me. Did anybody else (_besides_ MadameGiry25 *wink*) get that impression? I don't know—for some reason, it felt weird writing him this time. Never felt that, before…

By the way, did anybody hate Moran in this chapter? Good, you were supposed to! Even I did! ^_^ Btw, the reason that street name was blanked out was because I want to use a real street, but I need to get myself a good period map of Whitechapel. I know where to go to get it—I just have to go do it.

Writing Watson was difficult in this chapter, and a good chunk of the reason it took so long to get this thing online. He was exhausted and his emotions were just all strung-out. That's a difficult thing to write, in _any_ character. In fact, Lestrade's observation that working with Watson like this was like working with a pre-'81 Holmes was a realization I had as I was writing. Watson in this chapter is very much the way I envision a young Sherlock Holmes, alone in the world, bereft of his parents, his childhood home, and the girl he was going to marry. It was a terrific revelation.

Ah yes, and cookies to anybody what got Watson's and Lestrade's aliases. C'mon, guys—if you know Sherlockiana and you know my preferences in Sherlockiana, it's a no-brainer! ;D Don't worry, I'll tell you next time if you don't get it. All right, enough of this insanely-long A/N! Time to finish up and tell you…

…what's going to happen next week. Yes, next _week_. I think I've been stringing our emotions out long enough: I think that we all—myself, you wonderful readers, Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, and the rest—have been strung out enough, for long enough. For heaven's sakes, it's been several _months_ now since I posted the chapter in which Holmes was captured! So, next time, I think we're all going to get what we've been waiting for—except for Moran and Moriarty. I don't think they'll be very happy at all. ;-) Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	20. 19: Breaking through the Darkness

**Author's Note:**

HERE I AM AT LAST! Normally, I would apologize for being late, but I really can't, this time. It was out of my control. I'd started this chapter, and I was going to finish it in one day, because I had the whole thing laid out in my head. I could see it in my mind's eye as if it was a movie.

And then… my world turned upside down.

When I could get back to my laptop, that cinematic perfection was gone. The detailed map was lost. I still knew basically what was going to happen, but I'd lost the bits and pieces that made it so real.

Since I posted the last chapter, I've been very, veeery dry. But, last week, two wonderful things happened: 1) I downloaded the entire OSTs for _Sherlock_'s two seasons from YouTube, and 2) I won a Sherlock Holmes trivia competition at the library. (More about that on my blog, sometime soon—it's a funny story.) Flush with victory, very much in the Sherlockian world, and enraptured with beautiful _Sherlock_ music, I managed to write a scene Saturday afternoon, then I finished the chapter Saturday night… well, actually, Sunday morning, to be technical.

The last scene (you'll know when it's the last, trust me) was written while listening to the _very_ appropriate Track 19: "One More Miracle" on the Sherlock S2 OST. Actually, only the first minute and a half on a loop. I love VLC Media Player…

Oh, one more thing! I'm on Twitter now (though I'm still getting the hang of using it), as _Gwendolyn Frame_. Check it out, please!

**To my reviewers:**

Historian1912: Ah, my dear Historian… you can be kind of cute when you get sensitive over a story. Either that, or I want to give you a gentle shake for taking things so seriously. I mean, wanting to snipe Moran? Isn't that just a leetle extreme, hon? =) Hmm, haven't managed to find _Game of Shadows_ at a library yet—is it even out on DVD? I'm curious to see it, even though I'm sure I'll be weeping over the way they mangled the Canon even further. Yeah, so Granada's Reichenbach fight was kind of corny, but I think there's a balance to strike with epicness at Reichenbach. At least Granada actually filmed at the real waterfall. I'm still not sure why they chose to film the fight that way—Jeremy Brett could do action sequences, and they did use stunt doubles in that episode. *shrugs* It gets easier to watch with repeats, at least for me. And… Eric Porter was perfectly Moriarty in every way, so I can forgive Granada their lack of an "epic duel". *LOLs at a Star Wars joke nobody else might get* Glad you love Watson so much! Dat eez goot! =D _Sheeeerloooock_! Yay! Heh, yeah, I know, stuff still bothers me, too, no matter how many times I watch it. You'd better not watch episode 1 of Sherlock's 2nd season, though—I think it just might break your brain. Episodes 2 and 3… I think you'd like very much. Hey, Cumberbatch!Holmes isn't insane—that's RDJ!Holmes! Sherlock _isn't_ insane, really—he's Canon!Holmes with some traits amped up to eleven. And young. He's still very young in Season 1—in Season 2, he's matured some. HURRAY FOR GRANADA ADDICTION! …Historian, I would _eat my cowboy boots_ before I paid $100 for a novel, so don't you _ever_ consider _thinking_ about paying that much for this book! Seriously, your enthusiasm can be a bit disturbing sometimes… Don't worry, I love you, anyway. God bless!

MadameGiry25: *beams at the first paragraph* Thanks so much—it's really, really encouraging to find that I'm doing well with Watson. I mean, writing him continues to be a constant struggle. Even after all time I've been "into" Sherlock Holmes (and I've been writing just about as long), he still doesn't come as naturally to me as Holmes does. …which is pretty weird, when you think about it. Hee-hee, yeah, I still kind of laugh when I think of Lestrade wanting to put Watson in St. Bart's—especially since that opinion would hardly change upon knowing that it _was_ Watson. ^_^ And "You cut an interesting literary figure" was just waaay too good a comment to pass up. I love Major Sharon… which reminds me: expect to see him in Book III or IV of the series! =D Gaaah, _Ghost Map_! Shee-veesh, I'm loving the story, and not reviewing it! Argh, I _hate_ my inability to press the review button! Honey, if I wait to review it 'til I feel like I can, it's never going to happen—I really have to force myself to review, which is pretty awful and has absolutely NOTHING to do with the quality of the writing or how much I love the story! Nooo, Moran's _definitely_ not easy—too much gentleman and warrior and tiger-hunter and friendly neighborhood assassin to be easy. ;D Glad you think I did well, though—and I actually got you to hate him more than you already did? Aw, poor Moran! Even though I hated him in that one scene, I actually like him a lot. But on the other hand, I don't want to fall into the trap of making the villains I write—whether mine or someone else's—so likeable that people fan over them. If they're irredeemably evil, I'm going to write them irredeemably evil, end of story. Re Patterson: No, no, that's not what I meant! What I meant was: I figured _you'd_ weigh in on Patterson no matter what, and I wanted to get at least one other opinion! I just like getting more than one response on a request for feedback! Heh, thanks, though. =)

RachelG: Ha-ha! *rubs hands together in anticipation of your reaction*

Lady Kyree: Aw, I feel really bad that I got you so excited and then ended up disappointing you. But thank you so much for the love (and the fave!). And, hey, never, ever apologize for expressing excitement about what happens next—I really love it when I can bring out that emotion in people, and I'm sure many other writers feel the same way! I'm so glad you love my Watson so much, and that you think he's really, truly canonical! Especially since writing Watson continues to be a struggle for me, believe it or not. Again, thank you so much, and I hope this chapter makes up for the wait!

Ranger-Nova: Late is not a problem—you made it in plenty of time before the update. =P Thank you very much! Heh, for the most part, I actually really _like_ Moran. (See my reply to MadameGiry25, above, if you haven't, already.) Aw, poor tired brain! *pats it* Wait a sec, what did I just DO… I know what you mean, though—my brain is tired pretty much ALL THE TIME, these days. It's a miracle I've been able to write some Ships 50 stuff, 'cause my creativity has largely been shot, lately. God bless!

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><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter IXX==<strong>

**Breaking through the Darkness**

_Sherlock Holmes_. He holds onto that name now, clings to it. He is not their Little Detective. He is Sherlock Holmes. He knows… he understands that he very nearly lost himself to the dark. He shall not allow that to happen again.

_(I shan't, I shan't, for Watson's sake, I shan't)_

He remains drugged to a state of near-insensibility. Pain and that penetrating, suffocating darkness remain his world in its entirety. But there is a difference now.

He no longer despairs.

He heard Watson's prayer; and though there are black moments when a small, insidious voice whispers that he imagined it, he _knows_, with all the surety of his true self, that it was real.

_(Watson _is_ coming for me, he is, he is, _he is_, I can endure this, I _will_ endure this)_

And if he could only know the message that was spreading throughout London, from Baker Street Irregular to Baker Street Irregular, his heart would soar. _Mr. 'Olmes is still alive_. _'E's on -. Go find 'im_.

Sherlock Holmes _is_ alive, is more alive now than he has been in a long time, and his sons will find him.

* * *

><p>The premature dusk of winter had descended upon the city—and a drifting veil of sooty snow with it—when Watson finally reached his destination. Peter Wiggins grinned and pulled him over to the window of the deserted flat facing the other side of the street. "See the man wit' the newspaper, Doc?" the young man whispered. "Oi reckon 'e'll be 'eadin' 'ome soon, wot wit' the snow an' all."<p>

"Guard?" Watson whispered back, his heart drumming something like a parade march in his chest.

"No doubt about it, Doc. Oi saw Colonel Moran go in there m'self. Cloaked, 'e was, so as to 'ide 'is looks, but 'e looked up at the streetlamp fer a mo', an' Oi recognised 'im from yewr descripshun."

The doctor grinned fiercely at the boy, clapping his shoulder. "_Good man_, Peter!" This was it. This was truly it! From district to street to house number… and it was one of Holmes's own Irregulars who found his location.

John Watson wanted nothing so much as to go charging in there, make Sebastian Moran pay for his crimes, and _get Sherlock Holmes out of there_. It was an idiotic notion, but knowing it did not keep him from wishing that. "I have to get to the Yard, quickly," Watson continued. "Any ideas, lad?"

Peter's grin grew conspiratorial, a mirror image of the expression Watson had seen so many times on the face of his older brother. "'S matter of fact, Doc, Oi do. The Colonel rode 'ere on 'is fine 'orse—fast as any yew'd wish t' see. 'E left 'im a block away."

Watson's hazel eyes reflected the excited glitter of the boy's blue eyes. "Did anyone accompany Moran?"

Peter shook his head, still grinning widely. "Oi would ha' seen 'em if 'e 'ad."

Watson shook his head and smiled more solemnly. "Good man," he repeated. "Have your older lads keep a close watch here."

The young man nodded. "Don't yew worry none, Doc—'s all taken care of. Oi 'aven't been workin' fer Mr. 'Olmes all these years fer nothin', yew know."

Watson laughed softly. "No, I don't suppose you have."

"Take care, Doctor," Peter said seriously. "An' good luck."

Watson tipped his bowler hat in absolute respect. "Likewise, my dear boy."

* * *

><p>Moran's horse was a dark bay stallion, a magnificent creature. Watson had not ridden regularly since leaving home for university, but he had ridden sometimes with Holmes on some of their cases. Even had he not, he could not have forgotten how to treat a horse, how to ride one. It was in his blood.<p>

The stallion eyed him warily, but Watson murmured liltingly in Scottish Gaelic as he carefully approached the horse. "Good boy," he said in English as the horse inspected him, allowed him to stroke his head. "Good boy."

He swung gently onto the horse and… The horse bucked. Watson fought to stay in the saddle.

_Damn—Moran _would_ have a mount that would allow only him to ride it_. Watson spoke in Gaelic again, attempting to soothe the stallion. If there was one thing he could do as well as Holmes could, it was handling horses. He'd seen Holmes calm spooked horses before—even saw him break in a colt, once. And Watson was every bit as good.

The streets of Whitechapel soon saw a man streaking through them on a horse that belonged in Ascot, so swiftly did it gallop. John Watson could have thrown his head back and laughed for the sheer joy of it. He felt so very alive. _I am coming, Holmes; I promise you. I am coming_.

* * *

><p>Whereas Lestrade looked as if he were just holding back his excitement at Watson's news, Patterson looked strangely grave. "So soon," he murmured. "It would appear that fortune is indeed with you, Dr. Watson."<p>

Lestrade sighed and reached for his hat. "I need to find my nephew," he muttered, standing and coming around to the front of his desk.

Watson raised an eyebrow. "Allen?"

Lestrade nodded. "I need to get word to Mr. Mycroft Holmes, and I trust Allen to be discreet about it. He's got all his father's cleverness and all Wiggins's sneakiness."

Watson snorted in amusement. "I've met your brother-in-law, and I daresay you're right about that."

"Oh, good lord," the little detective groaned. "I hope he didn't give you too much trouble."

Watson chuckled outright, surprising himself with his mirth. "No, no—I think my positive interest in his mixed heritage aided the introduction. I could tell that your wife was relieved."

"I'm sure," Lestrade said drily, setting his bowler firmly onto his head. "Patterson, while I'm out, you ought to get Gregson in here—I'd like to have him in on this."

Patterson arched a patrician eyebrow—probably to remind Lestrade, Watson thought, exactly who was in charge of this case. "Perhaps," the tall detective said coolly. (And did Watson detect a hint of professional jealousy?) "Would you like his constables, as well?"

Watson's eyebrows shot up to his darkened hairline. Definitely professional jealousy—he would not have thought Daniel Patterson capable of that much emotion. Interesting.

Lestrade merely cocked a sardonic eyebrow as he reached for the doorknob. Holmes really did not give the man enough credit for his intelligence. "We just might need them," Lestrade said mildly. "Wouldn't you say, Doctor?" And with that, the smaller inspector was gone.

His eyebrows still raised, Watson glanced at Patterson, who looked his own cool and distant version of _thunderstruck_. Hmm. Watson wondered what had been going on between the two Yarders whilst he'd been away. "I think that perhaps I'll go find Gregson," Watson murmured, slipping out of Lestrade's office.

Instead, he ended up trailing Lestrade, who noticed and threw a smirk over his shoulder. "You truly _aren't_ a tracker, are you?"

Watson snorted and lengthened his stride to catch up with the smaller man. "Would you mind telling me what _that_ was all about?"

"What, Patterson?" Lestrade shrugged. "Don't ask me—I just work with the man."

"_Lestrade_."

Lestrade sighed. "Ah, I think he's a bit irritated that you've had such luck with your investigation, when it took him _years_ of undercover work before he could do much of anything."

"Oh," Watson said in a small voice. "Do you know, I've scarcely even considered how quickly—"

"I'm sure, Doctor," Lestrade interrupted, kindly. "Believe me, I'm grateful to Heaven for it, and so would just about every man in the CID worth his salt."

"Save for Patterson?" Watson said wryly.

"Save for Patterson."

"Mm." Watson rubbed wearily at his forehead. Now that the adrenaline of his ride halfway across London had worn off, he felt as if he could fall asleep _walking_. "What message are you sending to Mycroft?"

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I thought I'd tell him that his brother's location has been found, perhaps that we're going to raid the place and rescue h—"

"All right, Lestrade, please." Watson forced down a yawn. "Do be light on the sarcasm, there's a good fellow? I'm deucedly tired."

Lestrade pursed his lips together, obviously in rueful amusement. "Sorry, John. Why don't you find Gregson? Give him the news and ask to use his spare chair for rest."

Watson shot Lestrade a double take, but the Inspector's expression remained imperturbably innocent. "Perhaps I shall." Watson's tone could have rivalled the Afghan deserts for dryness.

* * *

><p>Geoffrey Lestrade had never seen so many men assembled of their own free will for a raid. Naturally, most were constables: old hands who had worked with Mr. Holmes, and boys who had made Mr. Holmes their hero. P.C. Youghal was there, as he was one of Lestrade's constables, but he would have made it here had he been on the other side of London. Beside him sat P.C. Murcher, who maintained a friendly relationship with Dr. Watson. Stanley Hopkins was also under Lestrade, but, again, he would have been here no matter what.<p>

Lestrade saw most of Gregson's men, most of Bradstreet's, a good bit of Jones's, a good bit of Morton's… Sherlock Holmes had himself a small army of Scotland Yarders here, as ironic as Lestrade knew it was. But however much Holmes belittled the men who took up the badge, those men knew that he was a good man. A great man. And he had helped them out, many times.

The little detective felt an unmistakable sense of pride well up with him as he gazed out over the assembly. _We know we owe him a great debt,_ he thought. _We can surely repay him this much_.

Watson sat off to one side. Beside him was Wiggins—apparently, one of his brothers had managed to get word to him. Patterson stood beside Lestrade and waited for the men to finish shuffling into the room. Gregson and Bradstreet sat nearby.

At last, it looked as though the flow had stopped. Lestrade nodded sharply to Patterson, who clasped his hands behind his back like a naval officer and cleared his throat. "Tonight, gentlemen, we set off on an important rescue, and a potentially dangerous one. We are issuing the revolvers tonight."

_And thank goodness_. Lestrade folded his arms and watched Watson and Wiggins as Patterson explained the fairly complex plan to the men. They were going to trickle the men in there, a little bit at a time. In the empty flats in the immediate area, on the street… Patterson had come up with the bloody brilliant idea to have some of the men perform a mummer's parade and have others following the parade as onlookers. It was Christmastime, after all—people expected to see mummers performing.

Wiggins was fully attuned to Patterson, his blue eyes practically shining of their own accord. Watson looked too exhausted to be fully aware, and that worried Lestrade. Of course, there was no keeping John Hamish Watson away from rescuing Sherlock Holmes—that had been proven some three or four times already _(Mr. Holmes really has a terrible rate of capture for being so sodding brilliant)_—but Watson was obviously little more than half _alive_ at this point. The whole mess had taken a severe toll on him.

He looked as if he was going on little more than pure willpower, not unlike a certain amateur detective, actually. Watson simply spent more time around Holmes than was healthy, and, when it was appropriate to say so—probably not for another half year—Lestrade was going to mention it to the Doctor. Not that he held out much hope of Watson listening, but he felt duty-bound to make the attempt.

* * *

><p><em>We've got a poor old horse,<br>And he's standing at your door,  
>And if you'll only let him in<br>He'll please you all, I'm sure.  
>Poor old horse, poor old horse.<em>

Watson, Lestrade, Patterson, Gregson, and Bradstreet march as mummers accompanying the traditional "'Owd 'Oss".

_He once was a young horse,  
>And, in his youthful prime,<br>My master used to ride on him,  
>And thought him very fine.<br>Poor old horse, poor old horse._

Dozens of constables occupy empty, shadowy spaces or follow the parade.

_But now that he's grown old,  
>And nature doth decay,<br>My master frowns upon him,  
>And these words I've heard him say -<br>Poor old horse, poor old horse._

Unbeknownst even to Watson, Wiggins has the Twelve Apostles standing by.

_His feeding it was once  
>Of the best of corn and hay<br>That grew down in yon fields,  
>Or in the meadows gay.<br>Poor old horse, poor old horse._

The guards are watching. The "mummers" and their associates sense unfriendly eyes upon them.

_But now that he's grown old,  
>And scarcely can he crawl,<br>He's forced to eat the coarsest grass  
>That grows against the wall.<em>

_Poor old horse, poor old horse._

* * *

><p>John Watson's memory was nearly as good as his friend's. As Sherlock Holmes's self-appointed biographer, it was an invaluable asset.<p>

But he never clearly remembered the raid. He was so very tired that it all became a haze in his mind, and his clearest memory was of a constable knocking him out of the path of a bullet to take the bullet himself. It was all flashes of light, the taste of gunpowder, the bangs of revolvers firing, the smell of smoke, the cold touch of his own Adams. Light and noise and then…

And then, his mind was brought into perfect focus, because Wiggins appeared out of nowhere and nearly screamed that he'd found the prisons.

* * *

><p>He hears the door creaking open, and he curls up instinctively <em>(unprotected stomach, far too many kicks, learnt my lesson)<em>, as much as he is able, into a ball. Light floods in, and he squeezes his eyes shut _(too bright, hurts)_, unable to stifle a soft whimper.

An intake of breath, two pairs of footsteps rushing over. He cannot keep himself from trembling in dread of what his tormentors have in store for him this time. _(what now, didn't you break me, why can't you simply _stop_)_ He remembers the time they pinned him to the wall and _no, I won't remember that, I won't, Heaven help me, I don't want ever to…_

"Dear God in Heaven," he hears a voice breathe, and it is achingly familiar.

He feels strong hands gently—oh, so gently!—probe his body. _(have felt this touch before, not from this place, where, can't remember, why can't I remember) _The hands firmly but carefully pry his knees away from his chest, prevailing over his feeble attempt to struggle. A voice from somewhere above him murmurs something indistinct, and his wrists are lifted into the air.

_(dear God, my hands, they're going to, oh, dear Father in Heaven, _help_ me)_

Moaning, he tries to pull his hands away.

"Shhh, shhh, Holmes. It's all right."

_(that voice, I know it, I know it, I want to remember)_

He feels a drop of water splash against his cheek and roll down to his lips. He licks at it, grateful for the moistness. It is… saltwater, but the… _tear, it's a tear_… is not his.

Ceasing his struggles, he opens his eyes and looks up. The face before him is backlit, but the silhouette… _(I know that silhouette, I remember, I remember, I _remember_)_ At the same moment, the manacles on his wrists pop open, and he starts at the sensation. _(my hands, so long since they were free, scarcely recall the feeling)_

"Wat…son…"

"Yes, my dear fellow."

_(that voice, so full of feeling, so much…)_ For a moment, he must think, for he can't recall what he once called Watson. _(what is it, I must remember, important)_

"I'm here now."

_(my dear Watson)_ That was it.

The strong hands remain busy, feeling him all over. "You will be just fine, Holmes. You will be."

"I knew…" His voice is hoarse from disuse and screaming. _(can still use it, thank Heaven)_ "I knew…"

"Shhh. Save it for later, Holmes."

"Knew… you'd… come…"

The manacles on his ankles pop open, and strong arms scoop him up. "Good heavens, you weigh _nothing_," Watson murmurs.

He knows not how Watson and Scotland Yard managed to get past the Professor's defences to reach him. Moriarty himself will likely get off scot-free, with no way to connect him to the kidnapping save an incoherent memory. But the Yard has triumphed this time. _(can't begrudge them their victory… still remember what irony is, that's good)_

As he is borne out of the cell _(dark, empty cell, my entire existence for an eternity, am I truly leaving it)_ he rests his head on Watson's shoulder, indescribably thankful for something warm and soft upon which to pillow his head.

_(Watson has me, safe now, well done, my dear fellow)_

The gentle swaying of Watson's strides swiftly sends him to sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

You may all feel free now to give me a standing ovation. I will accept gifts and tributes, but no crowns, please—wouldn't know what to do with the bloody things, unlike Jim Moriarty.

*grins*

All right, all right, I'll knock it off. So, allow me to remind you right now that, even though Holmes has FINALLY been rescued, it's NOT the end of his problems—or this story. Sorry to rain on your parade—and mine, really—but I just don't want you all ecstatically awaiting the next chapter and then getting depressed.

Still… yeah, you're allowed to celebrate. =) I wouldn't hold you back from that. I'm celebrating, too.

The last scene is a rewritten version of Installment 19: "Rescue" in AMM (which is here on FFN). It wasn't an easy rewrite. I wanted to keep up Holmes's half-coherent thoughts in parentheses for continuity (besides which, I just _really_ like writing thoughts that way!), but inserting fresh material and by and large rewriting old, familiar material was very hard. I could probably give you a commentary on this scene—maybe I will someday soon on my blog. But what I'll say right now is that one of my favorite lines is this: _I know that silhouette, I remember, I remember, I _remember.

As for the 'Owd 'Oss song, it's real! I did my research, I did! See http : / / www . folkplay. info/Texts/88sk38sa . htm

Thanks to "Solitary Cyclist," we know that Watson is indeed good with horses, if he can stop a galloping horse. I'll probably end up extending the scene with Moran's stallion, but I'll let it go for now. Some of you might recognize it as one of the one-line stories in _Deliver Us from Evil: One Hundred Sentences_.

Oh, and I'm not sure what was up with Patterson, exactly. The man doesn't talk to me, much.

The raid from Watson's POV could be seen as the raid from _my_ POV, since all the details I once had blurred together in my mind. When the film version comes out one of these years, you can see the whole thing, then. …made you look, didn't I? ;-)

All right, I think that's it for now. I'm afraid I have not a clue when I'll be uploading the next chapter, especially since I haven't even started it yet. (What had I been planning for it on the outline…?) But stay tuned, 'cause you never know!

_**Please review! (Reviews have a way of inspiring me, sometimes!)**_


	21. 20: Beloved

**Author's Note:**

WOW, here we are again! Unreal! Here's what helped, I think: I turned off my connection several times last week. It's amazing what you can get done when deviantART and TV Tropes aren't distracting you. ;D This actually might have been up _sooner_ (it was finished Saturday), but RL and depression kept getting in the way. ("RL and depression"… oh, now _there's_ redundancy…)

On a mildly-amusing note, this chapter pushed the chapter outline further out yet _again_. I.e. my outline for this book keeps expanding. 'S crazy.

Who here was watching _Sherlock_ S2 on PBS Sunday night? Raise your hand! =) I was watching and doing the live Twitter event with the hashtag #SherlockPBS, but Firefox crashed and it looked as if my entire browser history had been wiped. I eventually turned the computer off and turned it back on, and, when I could reopen Firefox at last, everything was all right. …I'd been so highly strung at that point that I nearly broke down crying once everything was okay. As you might imagine, that pretty much ruined the night for me.

One last note for any fans of mine who are on deviantART: I've just entered their "Original Quotes" T-shirt contest with http : / / aleineskyfire . deviantart . com / art / Every-Life-Is-An-EPIC-300906836. Please, go check my design out and vote for it! (For the record, you can only vote if you are a member of the site.)

**To my reviewers:**

Riandra: Again, thanks so much for the review! I'm so glad that you've liked Watson so much in this story—Lestrade, too! And you know what? I think you do FANTASTICALLY with Lestrade—really, I do! (More on that when I finally give you another review! ;D) So glad that the chapter exceeded your expectations… jolly good! =D Ooo, fertilizer, thanks! Need that right now…

Historian1912: Working order, jolly good! =D Mm, you haven't seen the second season of _Sherlock_—it gives you a much more in-depth look at the character. Cumberbatch!Sherlock is _different_—as in, different from the rest of us mere mortals. He thinks differently, the way that Sherlock Holmes is supposed to think, for the most part, where it counts; and that's what I've tried to capture with my own Holmes. Probably not doing so well. The Guy Ritchie films just make me cringe, on a whole, not the least reason for which are the subtle and not-so-subtle H/W moments (which _do_ exist, even in the first film). Oh, and thanks for pointing out the Roman numeral mistake. *facepalm* And I used to be so good with Roman numerals, too… Heh, a little hyperbole is just fine, and you're okay, really. Sometimes you just… surprise me with the intensity of your reactions. =) Oo, so you're done with this semester already? Hot dog! Hurray for finishing Granada! (Oh, and don't worry about pronunciation—I make that mistake ALL THE TIME, and I would imagine most everybody else does. =D)

Ranger-Nova: Heh, thanks for following me on Twitter! Well, I figured it was about time I got my own account there—it's kind of the thing to do if you're a professional writer. (Or actor, or _Sherlock_ producer… you get the idea. ;D) Aw, I don't mind the wait, really! I totally understand the whole too-tired thing—I've been having my own serious sleep issues lately, and then I wake up with killer headaches. All. The. Time. It's horrible! Heh, we've got about ten more chapters to go for this story, I think—you'll see in a minute how long it _ought_ to take for him to recover. (How long it actually _will_ take is another story entirely, and you'll find that one out in the ensuing chapters.) Again, very glad you love my Watson. As I've said before, it's very encouraging, especially since I'm not a Watson fangirl—I'm Holmes's girl, all the way. =) Aw, you just know what exactly to say to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, don't you? *hugs* Thanks, darlin', and God bless!

* * *

><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter XX==<strong>

**Beloved**

"Dear God in Heaven." Detective Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade had seen many a horrific sight in his time—he'd even watched the investigation of Saucy Jack from the sidelines—and he was no stranger to grisly spectacles. But seeing Sherlock Holmes lying there in dried blood, vomit, and Heaven knew what else _(I certainly don't want to)_… his gaunt face bruised, burnt, and scarred, his half-clothed body far more so…

Wiggins pushed his way past the constables to see Mr. Holmes as Watson checked him over. Lestrade turned to see the boy's face whiten, his blue eyes fill with tears, his hand rise to cover his mouth—against tears or vomit, Lestrade didn't know. But he did know that he had just watched Wiggins age several years in that one moment.

Turning back to Holmes and Watson, he felt as though he had aged several years himself. The ragged shirt that must have once been white was filthy, blackened, and blood-soaked all over, hanging in tatters on Holmes's truly emaciated frame. He reminded Lestrade of nothing so much as a skeleton, more corpse than living man. The bony wrists were no longer white but red and raw from manacles and brown from dried blood. One particularly vicious-looking scar trailed from his right collarbone to his forearm.

Lestrade didn't realise that he was silently weeping until he heard a voice whisper, "Knew… you'd… come…" Dear Lord, was that truly Sherlock Holmes? The elegant, authoritative tenor had grown so hoarse, so rough, as to be scarcely recognisable.

Then Watson carefully lifted Holmes up into his arms—Lestrade wouldn't have deprived him of that if he _could_, which was debatable…

Lestrade's hand flew to his mouth as bile surged up his throat. He heard Wiggins throw up behind him.

They both saw the ribbon mess that was Sherlock Holmes's back.

Watson passed them on his way out, consumed by his charge's distress and apparently oblivious to theirs. Lestrade watched, saw something in Mr. Holmes's face that both broke his heart and meant the world to him. Something that made the ghastly features look human again, look _Sherlock Holmes_ again.

He saw wonderment. Something akin to childlike awe. Sherlock Holmes was leaving his cell, and he could not believe it.

But he practically nestled into Watson's hold, and Lestrade watched him fall asleep for what should be his first peaceful sleep in a month.

The little detective felt rather than saw Gregson come up behind him, and turned. The larger man's pale features were perfectly blank, except for his wide blue eyes. Lestrade understood—it wasn't _just_ the sight of Sherlock Holmes like this that was shocking, but the fact that Sherlock Holmes was still _alive_. Lestrade had seen his fair share of miracles, including the arrival of one John Hamish Watson, but _this_ miracle must have been by far the greatest.

"Take—" Lestrade stopped, surprised at the gravel in his voice. "Take over, here," he said. Not a request, but not an order, either. He didn't wait for an answer, simply pushed past his colleague and strode down the corridor filled with constables and… Irregulars? Oh, good lord. They were the older Irregulars, thank goodness, but, _sod it_, Lestrade was going to have a good talking-to with Wiggins. Later. Much later.

Right now, he just had to get out of this godforsaken hole and back up into the house above before he broke down completely.

* * *

><p>John Hamish Watson was back on the battlefield. A recollection forever burnt into his brain was that of getting his fallen comrades away from the battle to treat them. Riding now in the Black Mariah with a more-than-half-dead Sherlock Holmes, he was back there once more, only… he was very conscious of the fact that he was on the streets of London rather than the wastelands of Afghanistan.<p>

Earlier that day, he'd thought that he would probably vomit as Wiggins had, weep silently as Lestrade had. But he had not yet felt the urge to do either.

He felt strong, strong as he had not felt in a long time. So calm was he that he felt almost as if he were the "brain without a heart" he had once written so callously in a case-note. He thought he understood why, too: Holmes needed him to be strong now, stronger than ever. For Sherlock Holmes, John Watson could be many things, and he most certainly could be strong…

…his hands mocked his sense of calm. They were trembling, and he could not control them. They spoke of a fragility that lurked just beneath a façade he could almost convince himself was real.

So he held Holmes close. Not to keep him from slipping away, but to deny Death his prize. Watson had his dearest friend back, and he would be _damned_ if he allowed the Grim Reaper to take the Great Detective now.

With Watson's mind overacting, the ride seemed age-long, though he discovered later that it took less than an hour in reality.

He had never been so glad to see 221B in his life, and he hurried, as carefully as he could, into the house with his patient. Mrs. Hudson was wide-awake and bustling about the place, but she halted as soon as Watson stepped into the house and clapped both her hands to her mouth. Tears welled up in her soft brown eyes. Watson grimaced: Holmes had been wrapped up in a blanket against December's chill, but part of his ravaged face was still visible.

"Mrs. Hudson," he began.

"My boy," she murmured. "Oh, my boy." She approached them, hands stretched out towards Sherlock Holmes.

Watson didn't want to allow her to see him more fully, but he felt he had no choice in the matter. Who was he to deny the dear woman the sight of a man he knew she considered family? He lowered his precious load and grimaced further to see Holmes's face for the first time in the harsh reality of gaslight, rather than the softer, kinder appearance of lanterns.

Silent tears tracked down Mrs. Hudson's motherly features as she took in the devastating sight. "He is not dead," she whispered, brushing at her eyes. "He is not dead. Doctor…" She looked up to meet Watson's concerned gaze, and there was a cautious hope in her eyes. "It is a _miracle_."

"Pray that we might be allowed one more miracle, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said gravely. "If he is to survive, we shall need it."

"He will," she said resolutely, almost fiercely. "He's far too stubborn to die, Doctor." She gave him a watery smile as she moved aside to let him upstairs.

He gave her a grateful nod and began to mount the steps. Only now was he beginning to feel his shoulder and thigh, and he knew all too well that they would be positively murderous in, well… He had thought to say "in the morning," but it was _already_ morning.

The door to Holmes's bedroom swung open from the inside, revealing none other than Mycroft Holmes. The elder Holmes brother actually looked _worse_ than Watson felt, for Mycroft had noticeably lost weight. His face was positively haggard, his pale eyes dim and tired.

"He lives," Mycroft said softly. It sounded less a pronouncement and more a prayer, and it was all the emotion he betrayed.

Watson supposed that he had seen in New Scotland Yard's mortuary all the deep emotion that Mycroft would ever let him see. "Yes," he said, simply for the sake of saying it. He sidestepped Mycroft to reach the bed, and he gently, gently, gently lowered Sherlock into it. _He is alive. Alive. Alive. And he shall _stay_ alive_.

Sherlock stirred for a moment, and Mycroft leant over the wasted form that was his younger brother. Sherlock's grey eyes fluttered open for a moment, and his features stretched into something Watson deemed to be a smile. "Little John," Sherlock whispered, his voice still scarcely recognisable.

One corner of Mycroft's lips lifted. "Robin," he whispered back, hoarsely. He stood, cleared his throat, nodded to Watson, and strode out of the room.

Wondering at the intimate moment he had just witnessed, Watson returned his attention to Sherlock Holmes's many wounds and swallowed thickly. He had been considering calling in Anstruther to help, and now he was certain he needed it. This was too much for him to deal with alone. Besides, he really was functioning on little more than willpower, and doctors were of very little good to anyone in that state, let alone to half-dead victims of prolonged torture.

For now, though, he could start to bathe the plethora of wounds.

* * *

><p>"Mind if I join you, Dave?" came an Irish-accented whisper.<p>

Davy Wiggins grinned faintly, though he knew the owner of that voice could not see it. It was only a very slight grin—he didn't feel as if he could truly smile for a long time. Not after seeing what those… those _animals_… had done to the man he considered to be his father. "If you think you can squeeze in."

"I can manage." The light of the nearest streetlamp caught Sean Youghal's corresponding grin for just a moment as he settled into Davy's hiding place across the street from 221B.

"Aren't you still on duty?"

"Ach, if Lestrade notices, I'm sure he won't mention it," Sean reasoned. "He'll know I'm off wit' you."

A brief chuckle slipped past Davy's defences, and he shook his head. "Still have that iron you were allowed for t'night?"

"Aye, got it here."

Davy could just make out a darker shape against the general darkness around them. "Good."

"Really t'ink they'll try an'thin' t'night?"

"Coul' be." Davy felt his voice slipping back into Cockney and did nothing to stop it. "Oi'm sartain 's _'ell_ nawt taikin' any chances."

"Ah-men," Sean said, quite drily.

* * *

><p>Mr. Sherlock Holmes had once mentioned to Rose Hudson that, as a boy, whenever Mycroft Holmes was uncertain and needed comfort, he wandered into the kitchen. She couldn't remember when he had told her that, or why. It was certainly an odd thing to hear from a man who spoke very little of his past to his own closest friend, and even less to his landlady.<p>

But then, she had long believed the relationship between herself and Sherlock Holmes to be more than that of a landlady and her tenant. He was indeed the worst lodger in London, and Dr. Watson had always been the darling of the pair. But, much as she adored the dear doctor, it was the younger, more difficult of her lodgers that had stolen her heart long ago.

Deprived of the ability to bear children and deprived of her husband, her longing for motherhood became fulfilled, in part, by a strange man-child with large, bright eyes. She had seen past the dazzling intellect, the kinglike authority, the childish callousness… she'd looked past it all and seen a soul starved for affection, not unlike a lost little boy.

So she'd given him all the affection she could.

Oh, there'd been times—many times—that she could cheerfully have walloped him with the broomstick, but nothing he could have done could ever have made her stop loving him. Under the doctor's open friendship and her more subtle affection, the young detective's spirit slowly but surely blossomed. She'd watched his relationship with Mary Watson change from one of near-resentment to open, brotherly regard. In the past two years, he had grown into a man of whom she could truly be proud, a man who used both his head and his heart.

In many ways, he was the son that she could never have.

And, oh, how terribly she had missed her boy.

Now the elder Holmes brother had wandered his way into her kitchen, looking quite lost in spirit. The motherly instincts Sherlock Holmes experienced from his landlady were instantly turned upon his brother, though Rose knew that eight years only separated her and Mr. Mycroft. But a man in need was a man in need, and the poor dear looked as though he scarcely knew where he was.

"Mr. Holmes, let me fix you some tea now," she said firmly. "You've been waiting upstairs all this time without a single cup of tea or coffee to keep you awake and warm inside."

Mr. Mycroft smiled sadly. "I very much doubt that anything can keep me warm inside at the moment, Mrs. Hudson. I apologise for—"

Rose Hudson planted her hands on her hips and cried "Mr. Holmes!" in the voice that always made her wayward lodger pay attention.

Mycroft started.

"You sit down this instant and drink the tea I give you," Rose said sternly, "or I shall make certain you are not allowed back into your brother's room today." And she absolutely meant it. She'd stand at the door with her rolling pin if need be.

Mycroft sank into the nearest chair with an expression of respect. "I can see why my brother calls you the most formidable landlady in London."

Rose arched a very dignified eyebrow. So Mycroft wasn't so different from Sherlock, after all—their mother must have been a very important figure in their childhood for both men to respond so to motherly behaviour. "One simply has no other recourse than to be formidable if they are to stand up to your brother, sir."

Mycroft actually chuckled, though very briefly, as if he didn't dare to do it with his brother in such a state upstairs. "Touché, my good woman."

Rose gave him a sad smile and dared to give him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "I shall be back in a minute to fix that tea. The Doctor needs some things upstairs."

* * *

><p>The night wore off gradually, sky lightened to grey, midday came and went, and the day hastened on towards nightfall before 221B Baker Street bore any semblance of peace. The Irregulars, alongside some anonymous men whom Lestrade <em>strongly<em> suspected to be Mycroft Holmes's agents, had several scuffles with Moriarty's creatures, trying to get at Sherlock Holmes. One criminal was dead, and three Irregulars were wounded, as were an indeterminate number of Mycroft's men.

Yarders were going in and out of the house all day, sometimes getting involved in said scuffles. Long before lunchtime rolled around, a constantly-yawning Gregson received exasperated permission from Lestrade to go home, with a bit of colourful language involved. Well, perhaps more than a bit. Bradstreet took Gregson's place as Lestrade's temporary second-in-command.

Patterson had not been seen since they left Whitechapel, but Lestrade was unconcerned. He knew that the Yard's expert on Professor Moriarty had much work to do, especially now that Sherlock Holmes was back on Baker Street.

Mycroft Tristan Holmes himself generally hovered between his brother's bedroom and the kitchen. It was rather a relief to see him eating again, as Lestrade had been quite aware of Mycroft's loss of weight as it was happening. It was more than a little odd to see Mycroft Holmes in 221B at all, but it humanised him in Lestrade's eyes more than anything else ever had.

He had always believed that Mycroft loved his brother deeply. Now he knew it.

* * *

><p>Anstruther had been shocked when he first saw Sherlock Holmes. But Watson needed him, and, more importantly, <em>Holmes<em> needed him. For the latest (and likely not the last) of many times, Watson was inexpressibly grateful at how seriously Anstruther took the Hippocratic Oath.

It was a long day of treating and analysing Holmes's wounds, but at last they were finished.

The report was not favourable.

"Your brother, Mr. Holmes, is _indescribably_ lucky to be alive at all at this juncture," Anstruther told Mycroft. "He has suffered dehydration, malnourishment, fever, anxiety attacks, repeated beatings, at least two separate whippings, one session of being burnt, numerous knife wounds, and Dr. Watson and I cannot begin to guess at the drugs which were given him. To sum up, sir, your brother simply should not be _alive_."

Mycroft's already-pale features had paled further throughout Anstruther's report. "Dear God," he breathed. The fragments of emotion that got past Mycroft's defences told Watson that he was absolutely horrified.

Watson wanted to say something, wanted to offer some sort of comfort… but he would not in the presence of a third party. He was not certain that he could do it if there was no third party.

Anstruther's expression went blank. "I do not know that he will survive, sir. The odds… are against him."

As if to prove his point, a strangled cry rose from the bedroom. Watson shared a frightened glance with his colleague for the briefest moment before darting back into the room. Sherlock Holmes convulsed beneath the bedclothes, his bandaged face contorted in pain. "'Sun," he was sobbing in his sleep. "Was-sun…"

"Shh, shh," Watson soothed. An invisible knife lodged itself in his chest and twisted there as he gripped Holmes's shoulder. "Holmes, I am right here. I am well, I promise you."

Holmes continued to sob, and Watson felt his thin veneer of calm shatter at last, silent tears falling onto the blanket. He sensed rather than saw Mycroft standing in the doorway, and he did not care.

"I promise you, Holmes, my dear fellow. And you shall be well, too. You will be. I refuse to let you die, Sherlock Holmes, do you hear me?" The tears coming thickly now, Watson raised the convulsing detective into his arms and held him close once more. "I refuse to let. You. Die."

He lifted his gaze to the window, and, through a veil of tears, he would have sworn ever afterwards that he did see Death looming outside the window. The spectre was little more than a lighter shade of grey against the iron-coloured sky, no menace or malice in his appearance, but he was watching Sherlock Holmes.

Watson did not bother asking Mycroft if he, too, saw Death—he knew that the elder Holmes did not. It was a sight for him and him alone. He gazed steadily at the spectre. _He is not yours to take. Not yet. Not this way. This man is for the living, not the dead_.

He held Sherlock until he had drifted back into deeper slumber. Death watched them both all the while.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Death's appearance surprised me as much as I'm sure it surprised you. It still gives me shivers…

MRS. HUDSON! =D It was so nice to see so much of her here, and dig into her character like that! Btw, "Rose" is _so_ a tribute to Rosalie Williams, Granada's Mrs. Hudson. =) Some of you might recognize part of her POV scene as coming from "The Warrior a Child," Day 29 of _Have Yourself a Chaotic Little Christmas_.

Oh, and, yes, the line "Dear Father in Heaven" in the last chapter was _Lestrade_ speaking, not Watson as people seem commonly to suppose. For the rest of the rescue, Lestrade just goes into this Blue Screen of Death because he just can't deal with it any other way. This is Sherlock Holmes. This is the man he's realized is not only his _friend_ but his _family_, this is the amateur detective he watched grow up from a heartbroken _boy_ into a genuinely compassionate _man_, and this person before him _looks barely even human_. …I think I'm going to have to go back and insert a little more of that into Lestrade's scenes. Yeah. Just not right now.

And _Mycroft_… Mycroft was difficult. We've already seen him mourn his brother, and his reaction now should be different, anyway, right? Still, not easy. And to bring up a piece of "Fridge Horror," as TV Tropes puts it… "As a boy, whenever Mycroft Holmes was uncertain and needed comfort, he wandered into the kitchen." But Watson notices that Mycroft has lost a startling amount of weight, and later on we learn that Lestrade has been concerned about that weight loss for some time. Not to mention the fact that it's only been… three or four weeks _at the most_ since the last time Watson saw Mycroft. Just _trying_ to imagine what Mycroft has been going through in the past few weeks is definite Nightmare Fuel.

I think that _Sherlock_'s _The Reichenbach Fall_ is going to be lodged in my imagination forever. In writing this book, in writing the sequel (The Road to Reichenbach), or anything else having to deal so intimately with Moriarty, the Falls, and the Hiatus… I am never going to be able to divorce my stories now from the images, the music, the lines, the sheer heartbreak of _Sherlock_ S2's finale.

This is a good thing.

Next up… I think we're going to see Mary, maybe Annie Lestrade… an attempt on Sherlock's life… his nightmares… I think that'll be the basic gist of the next chapter. Which is, as of yet, unwritten. Reviews help speed the process! =)

_**Please review!**_


	22. 21: Guardian Angels

**Author's Note:**

Last night, I finished this chapter, then realized… I pretty much hated it. I was pretty close, anyway. And this was the first time ever that I did. Not. Like. Writing. Mary. MARY, for crying out loud! I _love_ Mary! I still don't get why writing Mary bothered me!

So today, I did a major redraft. I started over from scratch, reinserted and retooled a few scenes, added a couple of completely new ones… I think that part of my problem was, once again, the Internet—and, interconnected with that, _The Avengers_. Went to see it with my cousin last Friday, promptly fell in love… hey, it was the first time I've ever seen a superhero film. Period. Before Friday, pfft, I could not have cared _less_ about _any_ superheroes, Marvel _or_ DC. Now, I'm in love.

I might even sometime do a crossover between _Avengers_ and _Sherlock Holmes in the 22__nd__ Century_. Maybe. Just maybe. ;D I'm seeing clone!Moriarty as something of a Tony Stark, for some reason…

Yes, don't worry about my imagination—it's weird. Pay no heed.

Anyway, new chapter. Very happy with it now. Fairly longish, too. ^_^ (Between edited scenes, entirely new scenes, reviewer replies, and A/Ns… I typed out _4, 900 words _in ONE DAY. I think my hands are tired. =D)

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: (Prepare for massive reply…) Aw, no problem, hon—I figured it must've been finals when you didn't review with your characteristic promptness. (That was a slight tease, you know. ;D) Ooo, thrilled to give you chills! *claps* So glad, also, that you loved the Watson-rides scene—continuing the feeling from Holmes's scene was _exactly_ the effect I was working for! Ha-ha, the original of the Watson line was simply _"Perhaps I shall," Watson said drily_. Just this once, though, I thought it was entirely appropriate to use a bit of figurative language and compare his tone to the deserts in which he'd fought. Heh, the _original_ of that last scene was from Holmes's POV—no way I was gonna change it! It was just adapting it for the style I've established for his current scenes that was difficult. Aw, hon—I think you do a great Sherlockian POV. Really, I do! Think maybe you could have another go at that scene, then, 'cause I'd really like to see it if you did! Heh, well, I don't know about _special_, but I'll do my level best not to disappoint! (On to review #2…) Ha-ha, I know what you mean about continuing the story—I've done the same thing. ^_^ Re Lestrade's POV vs Watson's: _exactly_. That's exactly why I reused the scene, because we needed to see it from a different angle and we needed Lestrade's for that. Made all the better by the fact that the Lestrade scene _almost didn't happen_. It wasn't originally part of the chapter. =) Glad you thought it… lovely. ;D Hee, I can't think of Watson as a soldier anymore without thinking of Martin Freeman's John… Not a bad thing. So glad you loved Rose's and Mycroft's scenes! *beams* And your remark about the blending of Mark Gatiss and your head/canon image _really_ made me happy! When I write Mycroft, I _do_ think of Mark Gatiss and try to infuse my Mycroft with a little bit of him, so… yeah, that was terrific. =D Heh, true that Anstruther doesn't know our Sherlock, but the point did have to be made. (Or stated, rather, since it was made indirectly through the previous scenes/chapters.) I'm glad you commented about Death, since nobody else did… For me, it was a delightfully chilling surprise. ^_^ Thank you so much!

Riandra: (Yeah, I'm answering that little note here. ;D) *soaks up the adoration* Thank you, thank you, darling! *grins* Okay, on a more serious note… Wow, thank you very much. *hugs* Be sure to let me know when you need a new tissue box just from reading this stuff. ^_^

Ranger-Nova: Re outlines: hee, yeah. Basically, regarding story outlines, my philosophy is: they're guidelines, not the Ten Commandments. They're supposed to help you, not the other way around. ;D I know—Sherlock, Watson, and Mycroft really are quite the woobies at the moment, along with Wiggins and Lestrade. Ooo, so glad you enjoyed Mrs. Hudson! =) Well, there might be ten chapters—I _may_ have spoken too soon. At the moment, I just can't tell. And, aww, thank you. *heart* "Order 66" is some of the most gorgeous, heartbreaking music _ever_—one thing _Star Wars_ recommends itself in is its operatic score. Some movie composers are excellent—John Williams is _genius_, right up there with Howard Shore (_The Lord of the Rings_, _The Hobbit_). Anyway, glad you listened to "Order 66" while rereading Chapter 11! =) And, _awww_, need I say again that you know _exactly_ what to say to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside? Thank you so much for the wonderful praise! *hugs* (Um, if you got Moriarty… I would be complimented… and worried. *Spock-type eyebrow* I mean, Moriarty? Seriously? I didn't even know he was on the list of results… The fact that I got Lestrade should tell you something about _my_ level of scientific intelligence… :P)

* * *

><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter XXI==<strong>

**Guardian Angels**

"Inject him."

_(oh, dear God, no, not again, can't survive this again, can't, can't, _can't_)_

"Raise him."

_(nononononono)_ "Nonono… _Watson!_"

"Shh, I'm here, Holmes, I'm here. You're safe now. Shh, you're safe now."

"Waaatson…"

"Go back to sleep now."

_(don't want to, afraid, so afraid, don't want to remember, please, don't make me go ba…)_

* * *

><p>James Moriarty poured himself a glass of claret, set the bottle down, and paused his movements. His right hand was trembling, and would not stop no matter how many times he clenched it into a fist. With detached curiosity, he lifted the goblet with the rebellious hand, tensing it around the glass.<p>

"_I have failed you, Professor."_

"_Yes, Colonel, you have. Tell me, how did the Yard manage to get past your defences?"_

Moran had feared for his life, and rightfully so. Moriarty had not been this furious even when Sherlock Holmes had first been captured. Now he lacked not only a valuable source of information but a potential heir, as well.

Breaking the Great Detective and then remaking him would have been a lengthy process, but Moriarty had been prepared to wait. Who would not, when given the opportunity to turn one's greatest antagonist into one's greatest asset? And for it to be _Sherlock Holmes_, of all people, a man overflowing with genius… such was the chance of a lifetime.

Such was the opportunity that Moriarty had lost.

And he owed that to the inexcusable incompetence of his own men. To be outwitted by _Scotland Yard_, of all things! He knew of two men who had joined separate branches of the family in the past month, and he had no doubt that those men were planted by the Yard—especially now that they had simply disappeared. It rankled him more than he could ever express, even to Moran.

To lose to Sherlock Holmes, at least, was honourable, as one refined gentleman to another… but to lose to the bungling, uneducated imbeciles down at the Yard? Utterly intolerable.

The mummers' parade had been a clever ploy, too clever for said uneducated imbeciles, and yet… too simplistic for Mycroft Holmes. The elder Holmes brother would have concocted a far more complex plan of rescue. Process of elimination dictated, then, that Moriarty was dealing with at least one unknown factor, and there was nothing in the world he loathed so much as unknown factors. Without fail, they always upset his equations.

There was naught else for it. As much as the Professor regretted it, he knew that Sherlock Holmes would have to die now. Moriarty could see no other equation in which he triumphed.

The glass fractured at last beneath the stress of his hold and splintered, wine and blood mingling together on the carpet.

* * *

><p>"<em>Bring our brother back by the 25th of December,"<em> Mary had said. _"That is all the Christmas gift I need."_ Well, so far, so good. Now if John Watson could just keep his friend _alive_… He did not realise that he'd been drifting off in his bedside chair until he heard a hoarse whisper.

"Wassun."

Watson was fully awake in an instant. The detective seemed as if he was trying to open his eyes and not quite making it. "I'm here, my dear fellow," Watson assured him. "What is it?"

"Wan-ted…" The grey eyes still closed, Holmes appeared to be thinking very hard about what he was saying. Watson felt that knife again in his chest. What had become of Sherlock Holmes's trademark eloquence, his elegance of expression? How deeply had Moran and his master damaged the Great Detective?

"Wanted… to speak… with you." Those five simple words took so much effort, and that effort did not hurt Holmes alone.

"As long as you stay calm," Watson soothed, adjusting the bedclothes a tad. "I'll not have you working yourself up just to—"

The grey eyes flew open, then just as quickly shut themselves. "No!" It wasn't really a shout, but the emphasis was there. "Pl… ease… Wa… _Wat_-sun… I d… I don't… want… to sleep. Please."

Watson sighed—he understood that feeling. He understood it only too well, and he said so.

The bandaged face stretched slightly in what Watson knew was the nearest thing to a smile that Holmes could give. Then one grey eye peeped open tentatively. "Oh."

Watson held his breath. That one syllable was the closest Holmes had come yet to sounding like himself. "What is it, Holmes?"

The dark eyebrows started to draw together, then stopped. Holmes had probably just experienced quite vividly how much muscle-power a frown needed. "Hair. Your hair."

"Hm? _Ohhh_." Watson smiled as understanding came, feeling slightly sheepish as he ran a hand through his still-dark hair. "Do you like it?"

The eye closed again. "Don'… be daft… Watson."

Watson had gone beyond daft—he felt that he must have been smiling like an absolute idiot at that moment. "Well."

"Face," Holmes continued breathily.

Watson was still smiling. "The moustache, you mean? Makes an enormous difference, doesn't it?"

Holmes appeared to think about that. "Dis… disturbing, Watson. Too… too…"

Watson chuckled outright and patted Holmes's good shoulder—the left one—gently. "Don't let it trouble you, my dear fellow. I can grow it back quickly enough, you know, and it simply had to be done."

Holmes tilted his head slightly, managed to peer at Watson with both eyes. "Why?"

Watson favoured him with a conspiratorial grin. "Well, I rather think you'd be proud of me, old man—I made quite the actor."

His heart burst with warmth the next moment: Holmes had that look on his face that told Watson he would have spewed out his drink if he'd had any. Some things had not changed, even when layered by scars and bandages.

"What? My… good man… acting…"

"I know, I know: prevarication finds no place in my many talents." Watson's grin grew positively wicked. "I beg to differ, O Brilliant Detective—I managed to work my way into Moriarty's own organisation."

The grey eyes widened. "…didn't."

"I jolly well did."

"That… how…"

"How we found you? Yes, it was, indeed."

Sherlock Holmes _lit up_. His eyes positively glowed, and his mouth broadened into his first genuine smile since being rescued. Then, the impossible occurred.

He laughed.

The next moment, he was grimacing from the pain that one sharp laugh had brought. "Oh, Holmes," Watson murmured. "When shall you ever learn not to push your limits?"

Holmes gazed at him pleadingly. "No… no. Good. Worth…" He grimaced again. "Worth it. Had to…"

"All right, all right," Watson soothed. "Don't work yourself up." He gave his friend a look of perfect understanding. "Laughter is medicine for the soul, after all." _And you need medicine for your soul as much as any man ever did_.

"Quite… so…" Despite the pain the laughter had caused, Holmes was obviously struggling to stay awake now.

Watson leaned over him and adjusted the bedclothes again. "Just go to sleep, dear fellow. I'll be here when you wake, I promise you."

Holmes gave him a last, grateful glance before allowing his eyes to drift shut. Watson settled back into his chair, drawing his revolver but picking up a book from the nightstand, as well. He couldn't let himself drift off again, not without getting someone else to play bedside sentry.

It had been thirty-six hours and counting since the rescue, and he had gone four days now with less sleep than Holmes himself would have whilst on a case. But, dash it all, they had no other doctors to look after him, certainly not at this time of year. Watson had to remind himself, sometimes, that Christmas Day was just a week away.

* * *

><p>Inspector Lestrade, on the other hand, had gotten some sleep. <em>Though not bloody near enough,<em> he groused mentally as he got off of the cab one of the Twelve Apostles drove. At least riding in Ned's and Pip's hansoms, when he could call upon their services, got him a free ride and a cab fare saved. For the most part, the Irregulars liked him—and he could admit to himself that, for the most part, he liked them back. _Decent chaps, really, the lot of them_. No bad apples, either—Mr. Holmes didn't stand for that sort of thing.

Lestrade did not have much in the way of extraordinary intelligence, unlike one or two egotistical inspectors he could name, but the Yard had always appreciated his ability to sneak around. It was nothing to him to look around for unfriendly eyes and all but vanish into thin air—he had needed those abilities to survive on the streets as a boy. They served him well now as he sought out Davy Wiggins in his hiding place across the way from 221B.

"Afternoon, Inspector," Wiggins said, genially enough.

Lestrade knew he must have looked like Sherlock Holmes at the moment, but he couldn't help it—his eyebrow went up. "Lad, you look the walking dead." It was a fairly accurate assessment, too, unfortunately: the boy's cheeks were all sunken, his eyes bloodshot and over-bright and dark-ringed, his pale skin positively ashen.

Wiggins chuckled hollowly and returned his gaze to 221B. "I look better 'n the Doc, sir, and that's a fact."

Lestrade shook his head. "You'd better be getting _some_ sleep, young man, because I don't want the first conversation I have with your employer to be about how you came to be laid up in bed with pneumonia."

"It shan't be, Inspector, I promise. We rotate ourselves every few hours; Pete's turn is coming up soon. Had a bit of action earlier today, he did—his attacker came out the worse for it." Wiggins's tired face stretched into a facsimile of a grin, and Lestrade tried not to shudder at it. It simply looked _wrong_. "These men of Moriarty's may be professional killers, but they don't count on Sherlock Holmes being defended by men as used to the shadows as they are."

Lestrade smiled a bit, grimly. "Yes, and that's something I wanted to chat about with you."

"Oh?"

"Your use of the Irregulars in the raid," Lestrade specified.

"Oh."

"Yes—_oh_."

Sighing, Wiggins pushed a hand through his dirt-matted blond hair, his eyes still not leaving the house on the other side of the street. "Every Irregular in that raid was nineteen or older, and knew how to really fight. I wouldn't have taken any who wasn't or didn't."

Sighing himself, Lestrade adjusted his bowler and said the first thing that came to mind. "Wiggins, my wife taught you better English than that."

One corner of the boy's mouth came up slowly. "So she did." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Inspector, do you think I could have stopped them? All _fifty_ of us were willing to go, right down to little Kelly! I could only put down restrictions on who _could_ go, not hold back everyone."

Lestrade had wondered if that had been the case. Those street Arabs were almost _too_ loyal to their… oh, sod it, to their father. Maybe they weren't too loyal, after all. "All right, Wig, all right. I'm sorry. But I think you can imagine my surprise—"

"And dismay?"

"—_and_ dismay, yes, to see the _Irregulars_ in that raid. That wasn't the kind of guard-and-ward-off-assassins work you're doing now—that was a genuine _battle_."

"Well then, it's a good thing we've a soldier in our midst."

"Ohhh." Lestrade pinched his nose and sighed into his palm. "Next time I see any Irregulars in a raid _without_ permission from myself or another inspector, I _will_ arrest them and hold them overnight, Wiggins, is that clear?"

Wiggins's shock was quite audible in his voice. "You can't do that."

"Try me, Wiggins," Lestrade said tiredly. "Now I'm going to—_damn_." A man was running up to 221B's door, and he didn't look like a client in need.

Both Lestrade's and Wiggins's revolvers went off, but at this distance, accuracy was a joke. The taller Wiggins was across the street before Lestrade was, and the inspector heard two more gunshots, one right after he burst into the house.

The stranger stared up at him with empty eyes, blood trickling into them from a hole in his forehead. Wiggins sat panting on the floor. "Merciful heavens!" Mrs. Hudson cried from somewhere nearby. "What—"

"'S all right, Mrs. Hudson!" Wiggins called breathlessly. "It's all taken care of!"

"It had _better_ be, young man!" she retorted—from the kitchen, Lestrade thought. "That includes bloodstains!"

Wiggins chuckled weakly. "Yes, ma'am." He looked up at Lestrade and shrugged. "I shot his gun out of his hand, but he sprung me, and we struggled for it."

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. "Terribly brief struggle."

"And a lucky shot," Wiggins conceded. "The forehead? Cor."

Lestrade shook his head. "Get yourself some food, lad, and then some sleep. I'll take over you until Peter comes." He offered the boy a hand up, which he took gratefully.

"Won't argue with that, sir." Wiggins smiled wearily. "Not 't-all."

* * *

><p>"I wish I could go see him."<p>

It was nearly midnight, and Geoffrey Lestrade had only just gotten into bed at last, with every intention of dropping off to sleep immediately. Alas, life rarely went the way he intended. He drew in a deep breath slowly, let it out just as slowly, and said, "No."

"I didn't say that I would try!" Annie protested, wrapping her arms around him for warmth. "I said that I _wished_—"

"I know you too well, dear heart," Geoffrey returned as evenly as he could when it was practically midnight and he had work in the morning and he was so tired that he could scarcely keep his eyes open and… To borrow an expression from his wife—_oy vey_. "With you, a wish is as good as a plan settled in that devious head of yours. But having you visit Sherlock Holmes right now is absolutely out of the question."

He could hear the scowl in Annie's voice. "Sherlock Holmes is _family_, Geoffrey. I know you don't like to hear it, but that is the gospel truth."

Geoffrey started counting in his head. If he got up to one hundred, he was in trouble. "Annie, Davy shot a man this afternoon—"

"And I haven't?"

Forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five… "I would rather that you didn't have to when it can be avoided."

Annie exhaled explosively, and Geoffrey had gotten to a hundred in his head (with less anger and more apprehension in the silence) before she spoke again. "Forgive me, love. I am simply… I suppose I have not been taking all this very well. Mr. Holmes's kidnapping and torture and now… now _this_…"

Of course, it was rather like a choice between the frying pan and the fire with Annie's emotions. At least, when she was worked-up, he could fight, and the two of them would diffuse each other's tension. But when Annie was well and truly upset, well… Geoffrey had more difficulty in handling that. Comfort was not exactly his division, though Annie's dual nature of passion and vulnerability had drawn him to her in the first place.

_Equally Celt, equally Jew—ever an interesting combination_.

He drew her close and rubbed her back comfortingly—he could do that much. "I'm sorry, dear heart."

"Geoffrey, if you are assigned to hunt down whoever did this to him…" She nearly choked on her own raging emotions.

He knew what she wanted, and it was no more than what he wanted, himself—especially after witnessing Moran all but gloating over Mr. Holmes's condition. He was well aware that it was entirely unprofessional, but there were times when a man had to _hang_ professionalism, because family was worth more. "I know," he said quietly, calmly. Calm enough to let her know, in turn, that he was deadly serious. "I know."

She clenched her hands into such tight fists that he feared she'd hurt herself. "I want… I want… oh, dear Father in Heaven, I have never wanted so terribly to avenge someone in my life." The fierceness in her voice would have disturbed many a properly phlegmatic Englishman.

Geoffrey was Breton.

"I know, Annie," he murmured. "God forgive me. I know."

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?"<p>

"Mary?" He doesn't open his eyes—the eyelids are too heavy.

There is a rustling sound, and then a small, warm hand strokes his face. "Oh, Sherlock." She sounds so sad. "What have they _done_ to you?"

"_Mon petite_ _sère_," he murmurs in response. _(my little sister, my little sister)_

"Shh. Lie still now. You'll be all right." Her touch is soft and gentle… "John is patching you up, you know."

"Mary…"

"Not that it shall make any difference," she continues, her voice hardening, twisting into another familiar voice, a deeper, harsher one…

His eyes fly open.

Complete darkness.

"No," he breathes. "No, not again. Not… oh, dear God, please not again."

"Shall we have another try at it, Mr. Holmes?" Moran. He can't see the Colonel, but he _feels_ him—feels the iron will, the malice.

He wills his heart to calm. It doesn't work. "You cannot break me, Moran." The shakiness in his own voice is not reassuring.

"I—" he jumps; the Colonel's voice is _right behind him_—"don't have to break you, Holmes. I don't even have to kill you. You are already broken."

He isn't even aware that he _was_ standing until he's collapsing to his knees, holding his head, voices, images, shards of memory assaulting him all at once.

"_Ever been in pain like this before?"_

"_Not even you can hold out forever."_

"_You shall scream… every—time—this—poker—touches—you—and—you—shall—beg—me—to—_stop_."_

"_Keep him from falling unconscious."_

"_You're simply a Little Detective, aren't you?"_

"_Hush now and come with me."_

"_So the Great Meddler _can_ be brought to heel."_

"_Do you ever… enjoy it?"_

"Nooo. Nononononono…"

"Holmes, shh, it's all right."

"No… no… no…"

"Holmes, you're home—you're safe. Your body is attempting to heal and learning to cope without those drugs. You are going to heal, do you hear me?"

_(I do hear you, Watson, I do, I'm sorry, I want to wake up)_

Watson's voice is as warm as ever but thick with unshed tears. Holmes struggles sluggishly in powerful currents, caught between nightmares and wakefulness, but the ache in his chest has nothing to do with his own pain.

"You will survive this, I promise you."

_(but, my dear Watson, I feel so tired, so old, so very old)_

Only a few days ago, he was holding onto a hope of being rescued, of seeing Watson again. Now, however… now, it's so difficult to latch onto a new cause to live. His life Before was grey and washed-out, and why would he truly wish to return to it?

_(not even certain I can, so slow, this mind of mine, I'm afraid, thought it my blessing and curse, might be damaged now beyond repair)_

All he has now is Watson. If not for him, Holmes would have let go long before now, even before… before what happened to him. The temptation to do so remains potent. He wants to let go.

Watson's willpower shall have to keep Sherlock Holmes alive, for Sherlock Holmes's own will is no longer enough.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Lessee, where to start…? Last scene, okay. Recognize the Mary memory? It's actually a recurring dream. Originally, she was going to morph into Irene (yes, Irene), who would then morph into Anne Middleton, who would then morph into Cécile Holmes. From there, it was going to be a nightmare about his parents' deaths, but then I decided to switch tracks and morph Mary into Moran for a different memory-nightmare. Maaan, it would make such a terrific flashback sequence on film… sorry, I'm like that. =)

My Holmes seems to have a habit of labelling certain periods of his life Before, rather than refer to turning points by name. When he was a young man, Before meant before his parents' deaths. After he met Watson, Before was simply before he met Watson. Now, Before is his life before his kidnapping but _after_ the Watson wedding, with the idea that, however much he loves Mary now, his home life is still bleaker with Watson's absence.

I wish I could remember the original scene with Annie Lestrade that I had in my head, but that was conceived two months ago, in bed, approaching midnight. When I woke up the next morning, I decided I wouldn't try to write it until I was going to write that specific chapter. A frantic attempt to regain what I'd lost in my sleep would not do justice to the passion of Annie's feelings (originally, the scene was from _her_ POV, and I was basically roleplaying). And yes, Annie is half-Welsh, half-Germanic Jew. Makes life interesting. Makes the perfect excuse to have a character who can really get _worked-up_. (Being part-Celt and half-Spanish-Jew myself, I should know. ^_^) On that note, I _loved_ drawing the brief contrast between an English everyman and Lestrade as a Breton (with _no_ offence _at all_ intended towards Brits!). I just had so much _fun_ writing Lestrade in that scene, despite the seriousness of the discussion! "Comfort was not exactly his division" was _absolutely_ a nod to Rupert Graves' good DI. Oh, and wasn't Lestrade thinking "oy vey" utterly priceless? =D

Actually, I had loads of fun with _both_ of Lestrade's scenes. And though I think it's noticeable in both, I also think it's _especially_ noticeable in the first. Maybe because Lestrade wasn't in the original version. So refreshing to get him in this time around! (And that teensy bit of offscreen Mrs. Hudson! xD)

I loved, loved, LOVED writing the scene between Holmes and Watson! (It's really pretty sad when you have less than ten scenes between our Dynamic Duo in a novel that stars both…) They needed a bit of light-heartedness, especially Holmes… Writing him just about broke my heart at certain points. Enjoyed portraying his reaction towards Watson's disguise. =D

Ah, and now you know how the Professor had been planning to turn Moran's initiative to Moriarty's benefit. Maybe the idea's been done a million times and has been stereotyped by _Star Wars_, but there's still something truly disturbing in the idea of a brilliant villain who wants to turn the hero into his servant. YMMV on whether or not Moriarty could have accomplished it. I personally think he could have IF NOT FOR… the fact that my Holmes is a Christian. As such, he cannot be corrupted, because his soul is in his Savior's hands. Still… Moriarty could have _seriously_ messed with poor Holmes's mind had Watson & Co. not interfered, and that's not a pleasant thought.

Anyway, I loved doing that brief Moriarty scene. The glass of wine was an afterthought, and one that I'm so glad I had. And I got the opportunity to show off Moriarty as a _mathematician_, something that doesn't happen too often in fic. =)

Ironically last, certainly not least, but definitely shortest… the opening scene. Meant to feel fragmented and surreal… and tragic. Watson is certainly only trying to help by calming Holmes and sending him back to sleep, but Holmes doesn't want to. He doesn't want to return to his nightmares because he knows he will… and he _falls back asleep in mid-plea_. It's kind of scary when you think about it.

Okay, next time, next time… Not gonna promise next week, because doing it last time nearly killed me. But I'll try for next week—I just won't promise. We might see Mycroft next time… we'll definitely see more nightmares… and I'm undecided as to when I'll have Moran make another appearance… Just stay tuned! Oh, and, y'know that big blue button? I was more than a little depressed that I got only three reviews on the last chapter… =(

_**Please, PLEASE review!**_


	23. 22: Taking a Stand

**Author's Note:**

Well, here I am again, at last. Still having problems writing, and I think part of it _this_ time is that nothing much happens in this chapter. Well, you might disagree when you get to the end of it, and I'd even agree with you, but my muse doesn't quite see it in the same light.

Plus, the reviews for the last chapter, though in and of themselves were encouraging and fantastic, were only my three current regulars plus a new reviewer. Now, let me take stock for a second. I have… thirteen favorites on this story. Twenty-five subscriptions. 8,698 hits total, and I get well over a hundred hits per chapter. C'mon, people, please. Throw me a bone here. If you like my story that much, please—tell me so. I need support right now. In fact, I need it desperately.

In fact, if this story was merely fanfiction and not a future novel, I'd have switched over to my _Avengers_ fic and let this story rot by now. I've done that before—just ask my original main fandom (one of the ones that's small enough for everybody to pretty much know everybody). And on my _Avengers_ story, I've gotten nearly thirty reviews, over thirty favorites, and nearly a hundred subscriptions—with just two installments to the fic's name. Granted, _Avengers_ is very hot right now, especially Loki stories (which mine is). But the fact is, that's a whole lot of lovin'. A whole lot of love I'm getting from a _brand-new_ fandom when my tried-and-true one is barely giving me _anything_.

All I'm saying is that, if you enjoy this story, _**please drop me a review**_. I need encouragement right now more than I can say.

**To my reviewers:**

MadameGiry25: Quite so—functioning brains are always good. =) And, aww, Holmes very much appreciates your sweet sympathy. Re "Moriarty in the shadows": I know it's coincidental. And, yes, it _is_ kind of funny. ^_^ Now, regarding Moriarty himself… *rubs hands* Your paragraph about our beloved Professor made me very, _very_ happy. *evil smile* I have indeed noticed that there's a tendency to make Moriarty just… evil, and even insane—and no doubt Andrew Scott's portrayal is now encouraging that. Here's what really made me smile like an idiot: your comment about Moriarty being "evil in a more elegant, gentleman-like manner", because, yes, that's _exactly_ what I was striving for! That's exactly what Moriarty is supposed to be, and my favorite Moriartys (Eric Porter :hearts:, Granada; SH22!Moriarty; and Paul Freeman, _Without a Clue_) reflect that. Anyway, I'm so thrilled you recognized that and enjoyed it! *hugs* Re "destroying Holmes's trademark eloquence": awww, I'm blushing! And, yeah, it's absolutely supposed to hit home the fact of his mental damage. Speaking of which, there's something in this chapter I want you to look for—a little discrepancy between scenes. I think you'll figure it out once you've read it. ;) And I'm glad you liked Holmes's reaction to Watson's new look and all that! Hee-hee, _everybody_ needed that breather. Well, the Irregulars are just so good that, most times, they even run under _Moriarty's_ radar, which makes sense, when you think about it. And I'm so glad you love Annie so much, especially since she's so near and dear to me. It seems that whenever I have a marginally original female character in a fic, I always imbue her with a little bit of myself, and Annie's no exception (Cécile Holmes, on the other hand, is most definitely based on my mom). Actually, the nightmare scene is one of the few that I haven't enjoyed writing—I was in something of a "brown study" at the time, regarding my recent, recurring inability to write anything Sherlockian. *sighs* Glad you liked it, though. =) Thank you so much for everything, darling!

Ranger-Nova: Tee-hee, long chapter last time, short chapter this time. Dat's da vay da ball bounces, _ja_. ;D Re watching Sherlock: aww, you're breaking my heart, hon! =( Well, we'll see what you think about his recovering after you're finished with this chapter. *'nother wink* Really glad you loved the Moriarty scene and the mathematician aspect. (You, EEEEEVILLLL? … _Nah!_ xDDD) Glad you liked the end scene, too! =) Thanks for everything, hon, and God bless! *big hug* (Oh, and in response to your P.S., at least you got to see a bit of SH22 and enjoyed it. What makes the timing awkward—really late at night or really early in the morning? Anyhoo, I hope you can watch more soon!

GoodbyeNemesis: Ha, no, your review was not lame at all—I loved it! Thank you so much for your wonderful praise and encouragement! *blushes* Heh, it's _still_ an angst-o-rama, but I know what you mean. ^_^ Glad you enjoyed the Holmes and Watson scenes so much, and that you love all the drama that's going on right now. =D Writing can be _very_ tough, and trying to write professionally is just about one of the hardest things you can do. Even I don't work quite as hard on my "for-fun" fics as I do on this story. And, yeah, positive feedback is one of the best things that can happen to you, 'specially when you get high on it. ;D Thank you again!

Riandra: Thanks again for the love, darlin'! Ha-ha, nope, Holmes never will get Watson's limits. Just as it should be. =) And, lessee, I think I _have_ said that your Lestrade is utterly fantastic, as well? Hon, I mean it! And my blushes for your calling mine "fantastic", too. =D Glad Moriarty gave you shivers—he and I are doing our jobs, then. ^_^ Heh, the teacher being a picnic compared to the student… probably! Thanks so much, again! *hands over another tissue box, just in case*

* * *

><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter XXII==<strong>

**Taking a Stand**

He sees Mother, sometimes—even speaks with her. Father is more remote. Father never speaks with him. _(in life, in death, Father, I miss you, too, I wish I had known you better, why didn't you let me know you better)_ But Mother is the best part of his dreams.

She sings, she laughs, she plays their Stradivarius… she dances with him in the rain_. (so long since I've danced in the rain, lifetime ago, I miss that, as well)_ What Watson is to him in waking, she is to him in sleeping.

But.

Memories of being tortured, agonising though they always are, are not the worst of his dreams. His own life has always been secondary in his heart to the lives of the people he loves…

_(worst is watching them die)_

In reality, he arrived at the manor after the fire had burnt itself out. In his dreams, he is there as it happens. He sees the flames engulf the house, an inferno that lashes out at low black clouds. He sees the greedy, murderous flames catch up to his fleeing parents and set them afire. He hears their screams and tries desperately to run to their aid. But no matter how many times he experiences this dream, the end is the same.

He can never move. Rebellious legs remain rooted to the ground even as tears fall and throat screams itself raw.

John may never know why his best friend wakes up sobbing and screaming for his parents, but he does not question it, and he is always there. All Sherlock can ever do is lose himself in that warm, strong embrace. He doesn't know what he would do if he could ever find _himself_ again.

Even if his mind can heal, he is not certain that his heart ever can.

* * *

><p>Davy had been keeping track of the assassins they'd thwarted, but Peter had long since lost count. He only knew that this was the first time Toby had attacked an attacker. The younger Wiggins brother knelt to the slushy pavement and stroked the mutt behind the ears as Toby looked up at him for approval. "Good boy," Peter murmured. "Good boy."<p>

Thank heaven for old Sherman and his willingness to let Toby, a tracker by nature, help guard 221B. "Yew make a fine guard dog, boy," Peter told the dog. Toby just wagged his tail, positively beaming.

Peter got back to his feet and pulled the oversized greatcoat tighter around him. It was just a couple of hours 'til midnight, and it was bleeding cold out-of-doors. He couldn't wait for Llew to replace him so that he could get inside and grab a couple of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits (free for the taking at this point in time) before heading home.

* * *

><p>"Watson?"<p>

At the whimper, Watson bolted upright in his chair, his book falling to the floor. "I'm here, Holmes."

His friend stirred beneath the bedclothes, murmuring, "No, don't." His eyes were still closed. "Please, don't. Not Watson. Please." Another fever dream.

Watson leaned forward to speak in Holmes's ear. "My dear fellow, I'm all right. You're safe now. We are both safe." How many times would he have to repeat these things? As many times as it took, of course, but his heart was breaking more and more with each repetition.

Holmes's mutterings descended into unintelligibility as he turned fitfully to one side. Watson dared not touch Holmes's shoulder as he once had to rouse the detective from his dreams. The last time he had tried, the touch only made things worse: rather than awaken, Holmes had seemingly relived some session of torture from the Professor's dungeon. Watson had shouted to rescue his friend from that memory… and Holmes had jerked to wakefulness on the verge of hysteria.

Watson wanted never to see that again.

"Holmes, listen to me," he pleaded. "You and I are in your own bedroom in 221B Baker Street. Lestrade and I found you three days ago in Moriarty's dungeon, and now you are home again. I swear to you that _you are safe_."

Holmes continued to toss and moan.

"My dear Holmes, please. _Wake up_." Watson could not take much more. In the past, inner demons had been one thing, dreadful but resolved rather quickly, but this… This was a great man with a staggeringly immense intellect reduced to a whimpering child. Watson couldn't stand this.

He couldn't.

Desperate, he grabbed for the skeletal white hand on the bed, ignoring the ugly scars encircling the wrist, and squeezed the hand. "Holmes, _listen_," he said thickly. "I am right here, and I am well. Please, _you must believe me_."

Holmes's bandaged face twisted in pain, his mumblings intensifying. He tossed more violently—for an invalid who had scarcely the strength to lift his head when he was awake, Holmes had positively the strength of a madman whilst in the grip of a nightmare.

"Holmes, stop this! You'll hurt yourself!"

"N-no. No! No. Mother, no…" Tears began to seep from the closed eyelids.

Not again. Please not again. Watson had no conception of why Holmes would have nightmares about his parents, but his heart broke to watch his friend suffer from apparently horrific memories. Watson hung his head and gripped Holmes's spasmodic hand in both of his. "God in Heaven," he gritted out, "let him _wake up_."

"No-o! No. Mother… MOTHER!" Holmes jerked awake, chest heaving, eyes wide and terrified. "What…"

Watson laid a gentle hand on Holmes's good shoulder. "Shh, Holmes, I'm here," he soothed. "You're all right. You're all right."

Wild grey eyes turned to him. "W-Watson?"

"I'm right here, old fellow. I'm right here."

"Waaatson…" The pale face crumpled into sobs, and Watson pulled him close.

"Shh, Holmes. Shh." He began to rub the man's back comfortingly.

Holmes buried his face in Watson's good shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. Watson could only hold him and rock back and forth slightly, his heart twisting with every hitched breath. Why Sherlock Holmes? Why must he go through this torment? What kind of monsters were Moran and Moriarty to put him through it? And just how deeply did the damage go?

Watson had not yet voiced the thought to anyone, but he was terrified that whatever harm had been done to Holmes's psyche was irreparable. If Sherlock Holmes's mind had been irreversibly damaged, Moriarty might as well have killed him.

It would have been kinder.

* * *

><p>"Hurts."<p>

"What hurts, old man?"

"Legs. My legs. I move them… it hurts. Tired."

"You haven't used your legs in a month, dear fellow—give yourself some time. They shall heal nicely, you'll see."

"…'fraid, Watson. Afraid that… that I shan't… oh, dear Heaven… shan't walk aga—"

"Sherlock Holmes, do not say that! Do not _ever_ say that again! You _will_ regain your strength, and you _will_ be able to walk again!"

"Oh, Watson…"

"Holmes… you can't… you can't… You must heal. You _must_. I won't allow you to… to…"

"Dear Watson. My dear, _dear_ Watson."

* * *

><p>He pushes himself up slowly. The world spins mercilessly around him as he does so, and he clutches his stomach, fighting the urge to vomit. It's been a week since his rescue… he thinks. Watson has been helping him keep track of the days. He closes his eyes. <em>Yes, Tuesday<em>.

When he opens them, he is ready.

His legs ache and throb at the unwonted motion of sliding out from under the bedclothes. They feel so heavy…

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he lowers his feet to the cold floor.

There was a time when Sherlock Holmes would not have hesitated, would not have feared what he was about to attempt. But he is not Holmes the fearless detective whom Watson praised so highly, nor is he Sherlock the impetuous whom Mother had adored.

He simply is.

He is, and he shall need much more time to come to terms with what has happened to him, body, mind, and heart.

So it is several more minutes before he can gather the courage to try to bring the weight of his body onto his feet, and he grows more and more tired in the interim. _Stop this. It is now or never_. _Watson shall be returning soon._ So he lifts his body forward…

Somehow, he is unsurprised when he falls. After all, he has been falling all his life—what difference does a physical fall make now?

He cannot account for the tear that rolls down his cheek when he hits the floor. Thankfully, the pain of impact overwhelms him and blackens his world. Even nightmares are gentler than this harsh reality.

* * *

><p>Rose Hudson had seldom seen the poor Doctor look more heartbroken. "He attempted to get out of bed," the man explained.<p>

She bit back her lip for five seconds before she trusted herself to reply without weeping. "The poor lamb."

Dr. Watson's thick brows knitted together. "It was foolish of him to attempt something so drastic so soon!" He found solace in anger, she knew—something to keep him going. She wouldn't begrudge him that, so she said nothing.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he said at last, quietly. "I should go back up now."

"Of course, Doctor," she murmured. Once she had heard Mr. Holmes's door open and click shut, she allowed herself to sob softly.

* * *

><p>He gazes longingly out his window, watching the large, lazy snowflakes drift past. Shall he ever walk in the snow again? Hurl snowballs at Watson and dodge the returning fire? He still fears that he shall never walk again, because he's tried several times now to stand over the past two or so days and he falls every time.<p>

He is too weak.

_I can grow strong again._

_You will break._

There it is. The thought of breaking completely, of losing what sanity he has left… terrifies him. It terrifies him as much as does the possibility of never regaining mobility. What Moriarty has done to him seems to have damaged him thoroughly, mind and body.

Perhaps Moriarty did not even need to _kill_ him to _destroy_ him.

_No_.

The defiance that was once so customary to him comes rushing to the fore, and he slides heavy, tired legs out of bed once more. Lowers his feet to the floor. Cold. He shivers, still afraid, but every ounce of his once-trusted instinct is urging him to go on, so he does. He shifts his weight onto his feet. The world spins around him, and he sways, but…

He stands.

He is standing on his own for the first time in a month, and he holds his breath, scarcely daring to believe what his body tells him to be true. If it would not hurt his chest, he would be laughing in pure joy.

Then his knees give out, and he tumbles to the floor. But he catches himself, grinning, not caring that the facial expression stretches scar tissue painfully. He manages to sit upright on the cold floor, leaning back against the bed. He has some time before Watson will come back up—Watson has been leaving him more and more to himself these past two or three days.

After some time, breathing deeply all the while, he feels ready to try again. Raising himself up is more difficult, more painful, than simply sliding out of bed, but he doesn't care. He only wants to stand, to walk again.

When he's back on his feet, he's still swaying, and he clutches the nightstand. Then Watson's chair, which has been moved back from the bed. Then the wall. It's a slow, torturous process, staggering over to the window. He gasps in agony with each step. His head hurts and spins, and his stomach performs a series of somersaults, the severest case of vertigo he has ever experienced.

But he reaches the chair near the window at last, collapsing into it and pressing his partially-bandaged face against the cool wall. The cold soothes his flushed skin.

Just on the other side of the glass, the idle snowflakes possess an almost hypnotic quality. His eyelids droop and flutter as he watches the falling white. Somewhere beyond the house, he can hear a small choir sing. He knows the song, and he knows there is a term for that particular kind of choir.

His mind is too tired to think, so he just listens, sleepily enjoying the first song he has heard in a very long time.

_God rest ye merry gentlemen_

_Let nothing you dismay_

_Remember Christ, our Saviour,_

_Was born on Christmas Day_

_To save us all from Satan's power_

_When we had gone astray_

_O, tidings of comfort and joy,_

_Comfort and joy!_

_O, tidings of comfort and joy!_

The snowflakes and the singing lull him softly to sleep. _Oh, I remember__ now__… today is Christmas Eve_…

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

*hums innocently* You know what they say—Christmas is a time for miracles! *big grin* If by any chance, anybody is reading this who bought the AMM e-book, you'll have recognized this last scene as having been adapted from… "72. Crisis". The first scene, on the other hand, is adapted from "55. Weak". Last but not least, the Watson's-POV-while-Holmes-is-dreaming scene was actually written for a school assignment when I was still doing that online writing course.

Brief note before I delve into chapter specifics: I would have liked to insert Lestrade here somewhere (because everything's better with Lestrade!), but I wasn't sure how or where and left it as-is. If anybody has any suggestions, I'm open to them.

Now, as to the opening scene… do you get the feeling that Sherlock was close to his mum? That's how I write them, as having been very close to each other and him very much like her. Maybe that's a subconscious reflection of my own relationship and dynamics with my mother, but if it is, I don't mind one bit. There isn't enough material out there that's a positive reflection on Mrs. Holmes, when she's mentioned at all—by and large, it's either neutral or negative. As I said earlier, however, Cécile is definitely drawn off of my mother, and that's very much a good thing. =)

And _Toby_ gets a cameo! Yay! =D (Lol, can't think of him without thinking of _The Great Mouse Detective_'s Toby, who is awfully cute.)

There's not much that I really have to say about the Watson-POV scene, except for, "Bless the poor, dear Doctor's heart." And that you _know_ it's not good when Holmes _and_ Watson are worrying about the same thing (in this case, Holmes's mind). However…

My heart broke when I wrote Holmes's first attempt to stand. Anybody who's been so sick for so long that their legs truly feel like lead when they try to get up will know how Holmes felt. I've certainly been there and done that, and it's not fun. And then for him to be practically expecting his fall and then actually _wanting_ to return to nightmare-ridden dreamland… *sob*

_Hurl snowballs at Watson and dodge the returning fire?_ is a reference to one of my earliest Sherlockian one-shots, "Their First Christmas," which appears in the published anthology _Tales from the Strangers Room_ (MX Publishing). The original is still on my profile's list. Also, have you ever experienced vertigo? I have, and let me tell you: a serious case is horrible. In fact, you can go look back through… I think both _A Study in Stardom_ and _At the Mercy of the Mind_, read the notes, and follow my progression from The Crash to full recovery. It was a month, I think, before the residual imbalance and buzzing in my head was completely gone. Anyway, this last scene ended on a much more positive note than the original did, and I'm very happy about that! Fitting, then, that I've been listening to Narnia's "One Day" while I write these A/Ns and do a bit of polishing on this scene. =) Oh, and one last thing: "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" has always held a special place in my heart because of a girl's Christmas book that I've loved ever since I was little. And the song itself is beautiful.

Now, pray tell, what observant soul noticed the discrepancies between the scenes taking place in Holmes's POV? Something happens between the first scene and fifth. What is it? *waits* Okay, I'll tell you: Holmes's _thoughts_ make the shift from parenthetical and broken to full sentences. Deduction: his mind _is_ healing. *big grin*

Last but not least, two things to which I wish to draw your attention. NUMBER ONE: _Deliver Us from Evil_ now has its own TV Tropes page (http : / / tvtropes . org /pmwiki/pmwiki . php /Fanfic/DeliverUsFromEvilSeries), including a character sheet (http : / / tvtropes . org /pmwiki/pmwiki . php /Characters/DeliverUsFromEvilSeries) under construction! Please, go check it out, do! NUMBER TWO: there is a sort-of illustration for the Moriarty scene in the last chapter in my deviantART gallery: http : / / aleineskyfire . deviantart . com/

Next up… are you ready for this? Are you _ready?_ *drum-roll* The Return of Sherlock Holmes. Yes, that's actually what the chapter is called, even though I haven't written it yet. But let me tell you, it _will_ live up to its name! Stay tuned!

_**And please, please, PLEASE review!**_


	24. 23: The Return of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

A big thank-you to everyone who reviewed last time! That really meant a lot. I kid you not—I was slipping into depression over this story. And those lovely reviews… it was great. :)

At first, I hated the way this chapter was going. And then I just… ignored the Internet, had "One Day" playing on a loop like last time, and focused on _enjoying_ myself. Once I did that, the chapter practically wrote itself!

Before we get started, I wish to recognize a couple of wonderful people who help me keep going: **MadameGiry25** and **Riandra**.

MadameGiry25 has been with this story from the start, and she has been a magnificent sounding-board. Her reviews always make my week, because they're long and detailed and they help me out with characterization. Her story _The Ghost Map_ is one big celebration of the friendship between Holmes and Watson and of Holmes's great heart, and now she has a sequel in the works. Her style is simple and focuses largely on the characters' dialogue, and the emotions really shine through! There's a twist, too, near the end of her story that has me absolutely fascinated and wondering how she pulled it off—go read it to find out what! And drop her a review while you're at it!

Riandra has become a very good friend in the few months that I've known her, and her fangirling is always sincerely flattering. Seriously, she has been a very big support for me through some rough times, and I'm constantly looking forward to the continuation of our PMs, be it through me or her! Her story _A Study in Regret_ is a vivid journey not only into the realm of _what-if_ but also into the hearts and minds of Sherlock Holmes, Geoffrey Lestrade, and Mary Watson. It's currently at twenty-three chapters and still going strong—I have every confidence that she'll make the minimum word-count for a novel (75,000), and I hope dearly that she'll publish it as a book someday. I've said it before and I'll say it again: this is one of those rare gems of fanfiction that equals and _transcends_ the canon. Truly, it is. The sad thing is that very few people review her story—please go read it and do so! She doesn't get _half_ the love she deserves!

**To my reviewers:**

Riandra: Actually, I didn't think of the correlation between those two scenes because they were initially written several months apart. Rather, _part_ of the Holmes scene was written over a year ago, and the Watson scene was written last winter. The chapter was truly a mishmash of scenes pieced together with significant time gaps in-between their writing. But that's brilliant in hindsight: Watson's tears giving Holmes the final push! *hugs*

Ennui Enigma: You're welcome, and thank you very much! Glad the "defiance" line meant so much to you, and that you liked the hint at his healing mind. Ah, I'd have to write more about Cécile to show the similarities between her and Sherlock, but the idea is that Sherlock takes after her and Mycroft takes after their father. Watson is simply absent at the end because he's exhausted and sleeping in a chair is _not_ conducive to catching up on rest—it's just a practical thing, is all. Thank you again!

Ranger-Nova: (Next time you misplace a review, hon, just leave it there; it's okay. I didn't even realize the discrepancy until I saw that I got _two_ reviews from you and one was a repeat.) Thanks for the encouragement! *hugs* Actually, superheroes weren't—and aren't quite, even now—my thing… before my cousin talked me into seeing _The Avengers_, my first superhero movie **ever**. Hope you can see it, because it's a really good movie! Oh yeah, I have noticed that whole character torture thing… *snickers* Ribbin' ya—I do the same thing. It's the reason this entire novel got started in the first place! xDDD _Sherlock_!Moriarty can certainly be unnerving, it's true—but my Moriarty will always and forever be Granada's Eric Porter! That man can make me _shiver_ like few characters can! I'm so glad you like the whole Cécile and happy childhood thing. :D I've certainly invested quite a lot of imagination!time there that's never seen the light of the Internet. ^_^ Ooo, you recognized the snowballs! *beams* Yes, 'tis—ah, simply because I'm on the Holmesian (dot) Net forum, and the book was a project to bring together talent from the forum. Glad you enjoyed the chapter, and here's hoping you enjoy this one even more! (And I'm glad you checked out and enjoyed the TV Tropes page!)

Bubblesxoxo: Wow, seriously? *jaw drops* Thank you! Your review really made my day—it's always wonderful to know that I can touch people with my work (and write a good villain besides!). My favorite character is _unequivocally_ Holmes (surprise, surprise :P), but Lestrade and Watson about tie for second place. And Moriarty is absolutely my favorite villain. Really, it means a lot to me that my work convinced you to return to the originals—even to like Mary! Just… thank you so very much!

MadameGiry25: Thank you again for your support, darling. :) Abandoning the story (especially so close to the end) is not and never has been an option—but _only_ because it's a future novel. As in, my future livelihood. If it was mere fanfic… I probably would have given up somewhere before chapter 15. I'm not kidding, either. Ha-ha, no, I certainly wouldn't want you to abandon _Ghost Map_ or the sequel. ;) Anyhoo… I'm glad you loved the memories of Mrs. Holmes! I have thought about expanding that scene, but by the time I was close to finishing up the chapter, I was just ready to have _done_ with it. I'll definitely go back and flesh it out some more, though! Sherlockian block has to be one of the most horrible things ever, because if there were ever characters that deserved their own fanfic, it's Sherlock Holmes & Co.! Expansion PM on the Irregulars scene would be great—I am _painfully_ aware that it's very short, even for me. Wow, the nightmare scene made you tear up? That's awesome! I'm so happy you loved that scene so much, and the fall scene, as well! Glad you like Rose's scene—I'll probably end up expanding that one, too. *sigh* So many things, so little time… Heh, if you liked that wee bit of Christmas _last_ time… ^_^ Well, Lestrade does make a brief appearance in this chapter and should feature more prominently in the next… I did consider putting Lestrade in that scene with Peter but ultimately rejected it as being almost… superfluous. Lestrade's already had quite a bit of screen-time with Davy—I felt it wouldn't be right this time. Plus, much as I would like to have him in that chapter, I also don't want to make him my authorial crutch, if you will—i.e. that he's there _just_ to be there. Ooo, I thought you'd catch the change in the thought process—glad you liked it so much! *beams* On one hand, I'm going to miss the parentheses, but on the other hand, it's nice and less work to be back to normal sentences. Let me know once you've checked out those webpages! And I'll definitely keep in-touch once I'm in the edit-and-redraft stage—I wouldn't dream of doing it entirely without you having a hand in it! Really! And once again, thank you so much! *big hug*

Lady Kyree: Aww, thank you very much! And thank you for your comments about Watson—I really do need to hear that I'm doing well with him. He still makes me nervous… Ohhh, thank you so much, dear!

Historian1912: My condolences for your church family, hon—a death in a motor accident is always a terrible thing. At the risk of sounding callous to poor Holmes, a little torture is good for the soul. Character-building, and all that. :) Well, I've finally given you that review! I don't know what you'll think, but at least I did it, right? *hopeful smile* GMD is awesome—I note that there are _three_ fics for it under your favorites, which is good enough cause for me to read all three, never mind the grammar (contrary to popular opinion, I can actually overlook grammar at times, lol). What I'm really curious to see is how similar the _original_, literary Basil of Baker Street shapes up to my perception of the Great Detective. Thank you for the review and the sweet comments!

* * *

><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter XXIII==<strong>

**The Return of Sherlock Holmes**

_In Bethlehem, in Israel,  
>This blessed Babe was born<br>And laid within a manger  
>Upon this blessed morn<br>That which His Mother Mary  
>Did nothing take in scorn<br>O, tidings of comfort and joy,  
>Comfort and joy!<br>O, tidings of comfort and joy!_

Davy Wiggins watches his employer's bedroom window from where he and nearly half of the Irregulars stand in the alley bellow.

_From God our Heavenly Father  
>A blessed Angel came;<br>And unto certain Shepherds  
>Brought tidings of the same:<br>How that in Bethlehem was born  
>The Son of God by Name.<br>O, tidings of comfort and joy,  
>Comfort and joy!<br>O, tidings of comfort and joy!_

They haven't let down their guard—Peter and some of the other lads about his age are on-duty.

_"Fear not then," said the Angel,  
>"Let nothing you affright,<br>This day is born a Saviour  
>Of a pure Virgin bright,<br>To free all those who trust in Him  
>From Satan's power and might."<br>O, tidings of comfort and joy,  
>Comfort and joy!<br>O, tidings of comfort and joy!_

_Please hear this, sir,_ Davy pleads silently. _Please be awake and hear this_.

_The shepherds at those tidings  
>Rejoiced much in mind,<br>And left their flocks a-feeding  
>In tempest, storm and wind:<br>And went to Bethlehem straightway  
>The Son of God to find.<br>O, tidings of comfort and joy,  
>Comfort and joy!<br>O, tidings of comfort and joy!_

Two more carols, and then Davy will call an end to the day. It's Christmas Eve, after all, and it will be dark soon.

_And when they came to Bethlehem  
>Where our dear Saviour lay,<br>They found Him in a manger,  
>Where oxen feed on hay;<br>His Mother Mary kneeling down,  
>Unto the Lord did pray.<br>O, tidings of comfort and joy,  
>Comfort and joy!<br>O, tidings of comfort and joy!_

As for himself, Davy will see the younger boys safely home, then return to check in on the invalid. Even if Mr. Holmes is asleep when he does so, he wants to wish him a merry Christmas.

_Now to the Lord sing praises,  
>All you within this place,<br>And with true love and brotherhood  
>Each other now embrace;<br>This holy tide of Christmas  
>All other doth deface.<br>O, tidings of comfort and joy,  
>Comfort and joy!<br>O, tidings of comfort and joy!_

* * *

><p>"Good <em>heavens!<em>" Rose could scarcely believe her eyes. Sherlock Holmes lounged asleep in the chair at the window, though he started awake at her cry. As she stood stock-still in the doorway to his bedroom, he took in her presence and smiled blearily.

"Is Watson still asleep, Mrs. Hudson?"

She closed her mouth and approached him slowly, afraid that this was a dream, that he was a spectre who would vanish as soon as she reached him. Even as she stood not twelve inches from him, she could not bring herself to touch him and shatter the illusion. "Mr. Holmes…" Then she realised that her eyes held unshed tears. "Did you—have you…"

"I walked here," he said simply, beaming up at her like a child proud of his handiwork. "I managed it."

This was real. Her imagination was not great enough to conjure _this_. "Oh, thank _God!_" she cried, clasping her hands together. "Dear me, what shall the poor Doctor say? Heavens, I'd take his scolding—you can walk! You're on the mend!" She was fully aware that she was rambling—perhaps even slightly hysterically—but she could not have cared less. Her boy was healing!

He chuckled tiredly, obviously slipping back into slumber already. "Be a dear, Mrs. Hudson, and don't allow Watson in here 'til tonight? I know that… Mycroft… and Mary… are coming…"

Planting her fists on her hips, she pinned him with the motherly glare _his_ antics had helped to hone. "Young man, if you think I am going to help you with your theatrics…"

Though falling asleep, his large grey eyes pleaded silently and eloquently with her. She sighed. She never had been able to resist that look, and neither, she fancied, had his mother nor any other susceptible female with whom he had come in contact. "I make no promises," she said at last.

He shrugged infinitesimally as he slouched further down in the chair.

She frowned. "Goodness, Mr. Holmes, should you really fall back asleep here by the window? It is quite cold."

"Don't think… I could stand… again, just yet…"

She threw her hands up—nothing with Sherlock Holmes was ever _un_complicated. "Very well, Mr. Holmes. I bid you a very good evening's sleep, then."

"G'evening, Mrs. Hudson…"

Smiling fondly, she shook her head and grabbed the quilt off of his bed, draping it around his far-too-thin form. She tucked it in and felt a pang in her chest—she had never had a child to tuck in at night, and the only times she ever tucked in the man she thought of as her child was when he was sick or injured. Or both.

There were times when loving someone with a motherly love was the most wonderful and yet the most painful thing in the world.

* * *

><p>Mary sighed as she leant against the frame of her bedroom window, feeling homesick and heartsick and not at all in the Christmas spirit. Any other Christmas Eve, she would have been glad for the snow. Now, however, it seemed to taunt her with the hope of a happy holiday that she knew would not come to pass.<p>

She'd heard no word from John. Only her second Christmas as a married woman, and she was spending it with only half of her family. She loved Mrs. Forrester like a mother and the children like the brothers and sisters she'd never had, but she missed her husband and her husband's brother terribly. Rose Hudson, the Lestrades, Ellie Bradstreet, Lisbeth Gregson… good heavens, she really had quite the extended family. The irony of it was that she had acquired it through a man who believed himself to have very few friends.

"Oh, Sherlock," she whispered to the darkling sky, "you've no conception of how many people love you dearly."

"Mary."

Her heart truly did seem to skip a beat as she whirled round and took in the figure standing in her doorway. "John!" She shot up and at him, flinging her arms about him. "Oh, John! Oh, merry Christmas, darling!" She clung to him, but he returned her embrace just as desperately—now that they were reunited, they were afraid to let each other go.

"Merry Christmas, love," he murmured, pressing his face into her hair. His broad shoulders shuddered as his breath hitched with sobs.

She wept with him. "I feared so for you."

"I've missed you—I've missed you terribly."

"And I you." Mary stepped back to look him over, and she did not appreciate what she saw. The streaked hair that was half-ginger blond, half-dark brown and the small moustache that was obviously growing back after having been shaved off was unsettling enough… Yet that was not what had her concerned. "You're so very pale… and thin… You've dark rings beneath your eyes."

"Mere exhaustion, darling."

"You look _ill_, John," she said firmly.

"I swear to you I am not," he said evenly. "I've simply not had much sleep for the past two weeks."

She planted her fists on her hips and levelled her best governess's frown at him.

He chuckled weakly. "Miss Mary, ma'am, I've come to take you to your Christmas gift."

Freezing, she stared at him, trying to repress the hope that blazed to life in her. "Sherlock. You've found him."

"He's been home for several days now."

"John Hamish Watson! You did not think to send me word?"

He winced. "I did not want you to come to Baker Street just yet—it's been too dangerous."

She raised an eyebrow. "John, in the event that you have somehow forgotten, I am now quite capable of defending myself. You made certain of that, and I believe I proved myself last Christmas."

He chuckled again, doubtless at the memory of her sitting atop a criminal she had knocked unconscious. "So I did, and so you did. But I did not want to take the chance with Professor Moriarty's assassins. One actually made it into the house once."

She sighed, relaxing her posture. "You could have _told_ me, John," she returned sadly, trying to keep the tears from starting again. "Do you know how often I've sat at this window, lonely, completely ignorant of what has been happening, fearing for you and Sherlock? There was one day that I could not rest—I felt so strongly that you were in such trouble."

His hazel eyes were dark and deep with memory she knew he wished to forget. "Forgive me, Mary," he murmured. "I meant to protect you, not to cause you pain."

She smiled mournfully. "Do you realise how much you just sounded like Sherlock?"

John froze, then shook his head. "Bundle up, Mary—it is very cold out."

"Shouldn't I pack?"

He shook his head again. "I mean to bring you back tonight." She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised his hand. "I shan't be home for some time yet, and I stand by what I said before: I don't want you to be in our house alone."

She heaved a sigh. "Very well. I'll only be a minute."

* * *

><p>Wiggins had been upstairs only twice since Mr. Holmes's rescue, but he'd certainly known what to expect. Trust the Great Detective to exceed those expectations now. Sherlock Holmes was awake and sitting up in the chair by the window.<p>

In that moment, David Jonathan Wiggins was a little boy again. "_Da!_"

What followed was a jumble of laughter and tears from them both. But at last, Sherlock Holmes pulled back and said, "Help me over to the bed, there's a good fellow?"

"Yes, sir," Davy said, with a hitched laugh. "Cor, you're so light…"

"Believe… you me, I am… well aware of that." The older man was gasping in pain. Wiggins was glad to set him down on the bed—he hated seeing and hearing his da in pain like that.

"Did you enjoy the carolling?"

Mr. Holmes's eyes blurred again. "The Irregulars… you…"

Wiggins nodded and grinned, doffing his cap and giving a sweeping bow. "The Merry Baker Street Irregulars, at your singing service."

Mr. Holmes laughed brokenly. "Oh, Wig…"

Wiggins straightened and placed his cap back on his head. "Get you some sleep now, sir. I have it on good authority that you'll be having a little gathering here tonight."

"Get _yourself_ some sleep, Wig," Mr. Holmes mumbled, though he closed his eyes and settled back into his bed. Wiggins grabbed the blanket off the chair and threw it over the detective's far-too-thin form. "You look… as though you need it…"

"I shall, sir." Wiggins smiled slightly—Mr. Holmes was a mere ten years older than Wiggins himself and sometimes seemed a lifetime older, but when he slept, he looked as young as his protégé. "Merry Christmas, Da," Wiggins whispered.

* * *

><p>The sound of voices in the sitting room, hushed but clarion to his sensitive ears, pulled him back to the land of the living. Wiggins was gone—home to bed, he hoped. Taking care to be quiet and, well, careful, Sherlock Holmes pushed himself up to a sitting position and slid out of bed. The floor was no less cold than when he had tried this earlier, but the sensation was not completely unwelcome. Still as unsteady as a newborn foal, he groped his way along the furniture until he'd reached the door. He heard the voices in the room beyond go silent as he turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.<p>

He must have truly been a sight: still fairly mummified, half-dead beneath that, and standing on wobbling legs. But he was _standing_. He grinned tiredly at his astonished audience.

"Holmes!" Watson cried.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft and Mary exclaimed together. Sherlock was astonished to see his brother pale and considerably thinner than his wont, and he did not need his brain to be at full capacity to know why. _Dear brother, I'm so sorry_.

"What on _earth_ are you doing out of bed?" Watson demanded, hazel eyes still wide with shock.

"Obviously, my insensitive brother wishes to give us a serious fright when he collapses from exhaustion," Mycroft said pointedly. Sherlock simply shook his head and did not protest when Mycroft assisted him towards his own armchair, into which he sank gratefully.

It was the first time in over a month that he had presided over his domicile from his throne. He felt nearly giddy with joy at being able to return to it.

"Thank you, brother mine," he murmured. He flashed the Watsons another grin, this one shorter-lived and even more tired than the first.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mary breathed. She rose uncertainly from the settee, then abandoned all hesitation and rushed forward to embrace him. "You are going to be all right—oh, thank God!"

"In time, at any rate," Sherlock agreed feelingly, wrapping his arms around her. He could not imagine how he must appear to her, but, apparently, she did not care. Mary was absolutely worthy to be the helpmeet of his dearest friend. "I have missed you, Mary," he whispered, returning her embrace with all the strength he could manage.

Mary pulled away and wiped at the tears falling from her large blue eyes. "I've missed _you_." She gave a self-conscious little laugh. "My apologies—I had not intended…"

"Shh." He put his finger on her lips. "It's all right."

She nodded and stood, backing away to let her husband step forward. "You left your bed just today?" said John.

Sherlock nodded, still amazed that he'd managed it.

Watson sighed and shook his head. "You are an idiot," he said flatly.

"I heartily concur, Doctor," Mycroft harrumphed.

Sherlock smiled slightly—_both_ his brothers were visibly repressing smiles. He opened his mouth to retort, but he never had the chance to start. From his bedroom, he heard the sound of shattering glass and a _whoosh_ that was all too familiar.

Adrenaline is a curious thing. Even when one is convalescing from a grave illness, adrenaline can grant the body enough strength to forget its exhaustion. Sherlock and Watson sprang from their chairs almost simultaneously, and, in his peripheral vision, Sherlock saw Mycroft taking Mary's hand and hurrying her to the door.

"Mycroft, get Mary and Mrs. Hudson out of the house!" Watson shouted.

"John!" Mary cried, right as Sherlock re-entered his bedroom. Flames licked at the rug, spread from a good old-fashioned torch.

"Good heavens," he heard Mycroft say.

"_Go,_ Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted hoarsely. He raised his dressing gown to protect his nose and mouth as he grabbed the sheets off his bed. Watson was already beating at the fire with the blanket, and Sherlock joined him. It was a frantic rhythm—Sherlock would not allow his mind to calculate the consequences of a fire spreading throughout his rooms. It was unthinkable.

The room filled with smoke, and it was over nearly as quickly as it had begun.

His adrenaline expended, Sherlock collapsed against the bed, coughing uncontrollably. Watson lifted him up easily and bore him back out to the sitting room, laying him out on the settee. "Stay here," Watson said urgently, and then he was gone. Sherlock merely buried his face into one of the pillows, struggling to stop the coughs.

A minute later, Mycroft and Mary were back, with Mrs. Hudson in tow. "Oh, Mr. Holmes," his landlady half-sighed in that motherly tone she used so well.

"I'll fetch him some water," he heard Mary say.

Sherlock looked up to see Mycroft settle his depleted bulk into Sherlock's armchair. "Of all the ways to spend Christmas Eve…"

When Mary returned a moment later, her husband was with her. John leant over the back of the settee as Mary delivered a glass to the convalescent detective. "Thank you, dear," Sherlock said after gulping down the welcome water. "Well?" he added in an undertone to Watson.

"Wiggins is _not_ going to be happy at a second assassin getting past his defences," Watson sighed. "I couldn't be certain, but I think I recognised the man as one of the lot that's tried to get into this house before. I only caught the back of him clearly as he fled."

Sherlock leant back and closed his eyes with a sigh. "Should have known—" he coughed—"Moriarty would have attempted arson as… as a way to finish me… if all else failed…"

"You've been scarcely lucid enough even to entertain such a notion," Watson said severely.

A wave of shame washed over the detective—he was coming to acknowledge that he had brought all this upon himself and had brought grief to the people around him. He draped his arm across his still-closed eyes, attempting to huddle down in the settee as if to hide himself in disgrace from the world. "I know."

"Holmes." His Boswell's voice was gentle this time. "Moriarty won the first battle, not the war."

Mary's cry of delight brought their attentions back to the present. "Thank you so much, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced from beneath his arm at his honorary sister, who was smiling down at a beautifully-bound _Idylls of the King_ in her lap.

"Tennyson is much too flowery, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered.

Mary heard him, looked up to meet John's eyes, and shook her head. "Never mind him, dear," Mrs. Hudson soothed. "What is the book about?"

As Mary explained, Watson returned his attention to Sherlock and shook his head. "I don't think he shall try again tonight," the Doctor whispered. The others were busying themselves with the gifts beneath the tree, striving for a sense of normalcy. "For tonight, Holmes, let's enjoy this holiest of holidays."

Sherlock smirked wearily. "Poetic… as ever, Watson." The expression swiftly crumbled as a solemn sensation nagged at the back of his mind. "Do you know, I somehow feel as if… as if this is the last Christmas we shall enjoy together for… for quite a long time."

Even as the words came out of his mouth, he knew they were a mistake. Watson blanched. "Holmes, don't say that."

"My dear Watson, I am many things, but I am not prescient, despite what others may think. It is a… a vague intuition. Nothing more."

"I've always trusted your intuition."

Sherlock reached up and fondly patted Watson's hand. "Then trust this: no matter how far and how long we are separated, we shall always come back to each other. That is more than an intuition, my dear fellow—that is a promise."

* * *

><p>Sebastian Moran watched the proceeds of 221B's sitting room through the sights of his airgun. There was Mrs. Watson, a pretty little thing—he certainly could not fault Major Watson's judgement there. Mrs. Hudson, roughly the same age as Moran himself and, from what he'd heard, a surrogate mother to Holmes. The elder Holmes brother, the man who personified the British government, the man who was not to be touched—Professor's orders. Major Watson himself, considerably worn-down since their encounter with each other. And Sherlock Holmes, draped across the settee, exhausted but unmistakably <em>alive<em>.

The fire had been a diversion to get Moran past the defences of Baker Street and into Camden House, opposite 221B. The Professor had grown justifiably impatient with the incompetence of his own trained killers, and had at last sent Moran out on this mission. Moran shook his head—he should have been the first one here, and _would_ have been if he'd had his way.

Now it was Christmas Eve, and he was spending it on an assassination rather than at the ball he'd meant to attend. He was professional to the very end, but even he did not appreciate being sent out on a mission on Christmas Eve, of all nights. Looking through his sights now, he appreciated it even less.

For, whatever others might think of him, Colonel Moran was not without a heart. He had his lights, and he stuck to them. Call him a sentimental fool, but he did not want to kill a man on Christmas Eve, not even a man he hated. He could not speak for the Professor, but he himself was not without respect for the holiday. Furthermore, much as Watson irked Moran, the army doctor also had his respect. Major John H. Watson was a good man and, from what Moran had been able to gather, a good soldier—and there were few things Moran respected more.

He sighed as he lowered his gun. He had already angered the Professor greatly _twice_ in the last two months, and he was risking his very life by doing it a third time. But he would shed no blood tonight.

* * *

><p>Sherlock could have fainted from surprise when Mycroft opened the case for the Stradivarius and lifted it up to his shoulder. Mycroft pointed the bow at him and said, "This is the first and last time I do this for you, Sherlock, and I'm likely to make a fool of myself for it, but what should you like to hear?"<p>

Sherlock did not have to consider it. "'Silent Night'."

Mycroft nodded. "'Silent Night' it is." He tucked the violin beneath his chin and scraped the bow across it a few times before he got his bearings. Sherlock was fairly certain Mycroft had played neither that violin nor any other in a good fifteen years, if not longer.

Mary squeezed in beside John in his armchair, and Mrs. Hudson came to sit by Sherlock. He gave her a brief, grateful smile before returning his attention to Mycroft. The playing was a bit shaky, but that did not prevent the Watsons from singing along.

_Silent night, holy night  
>All is calm, all is bright<br>Round yon Virgin Mother and Child  
>Holy Infant so tender and mild<br>Sleep in heavenly peace  
>Sleep in heavenly peace<em>

* * *

><p>James Moriarty cut open the envelope addressed in his brother's handwriting. The card was a typical Christmas greeting card, festive and utterly unlike Colonel John Moriarty. The message inside was even more so, and was signed: <em>Your loving brother, John<em>.

James sighed. He had no patience for his brother's pettiness. It was no fault of his own that he'd inherited all the brain and John all the brawn in their proud military and intellectual family. A bit too independent for his own health Moran might be, but it was infinitely preferable to a younger brother's interminable envy. John's jealousy had created a schism between them when they were still boys, and James had been glad to enter university at the tender age of twelve.

Shaking his head at himself, James returned to his paperwork. Nostalgia was for the infirm, and he did not mean to reach that point for some years to come. He heard the carol a merry troupe was singing outside, but he paid it no heed. Charles Dickens had created quite a practical figure in Ebenezer Scrooge—such a shame that he had gone on to destroy that practicality. James had no intention of allowing the same fate to befall him.

_Silent night, holy night  
>Shepherds quake at the sight<br>Glories stream from Heaven afar  
>Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia!<br>Christ, the Saviour is born  
>Christ, the Saviour is born<em>

* * *

><p>Geoffrey Lestrade placed the final package beneath the tree, then leant back to survey the pile. "It's a small lot," he said quietly.<p>

"It always is," Annie returned, kissing him firmly on the side of his head. "Never you mind. The _kinderlekh_ certainly don't. They have their _Tad_, and they know they're blessed to have such a fine one."

Geoffrey smiled tiredly up at her. "What would I do without you?"

"Exactly what you did before you met me," she said wryly.

He frowned. "I don't recall doing much of anything outside of work."

"There you are." She grinned mischievously. "Shall we have our own Christmas celebration, Inspector Lestrade?"

He shook his head and laughed as he rose to his feet. "No one would think you Jewish by your Christmas spirit, love." He drew her to him and planted a kiss on her forehead.

"Merry Christmas, Inspector," she murmured into his shoulder.

No one could infuse his title with as much affection as his wife could. He whispered, "Merry Christmas, Annie," and kissed her again.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was swiftly drifting off to sleep before the first stanza was complete. It put him in drowsy mind of his first Christmas with Watson, when his own playing had put the young veteran to sleep. It had been the best Christmas Sherlock had known in years, and he very much believed that this one would prove similar.<p>

_Silent night, holy night  
>Son of God, love's pure light<br>Radiant beams from Thy holy face  
>With the dawn of redeeming grace<br>Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth  
>Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

When it came time to truly plot this chapter out, one of the first things that came to mind was what I call the "Silent Night Montage." One aspect of that was to show Moriarty opening a card from his brother—the message of which, btw, I prefer to leave the imagination of the reader. I meant to show, somewhat indirectly, how lonely a man Moriarty truly is. Whether you pity him or not is up to you—that wasn't my intention, although I do find myself pitying him. Evil cannot beget Love, nor can Evil comprehend it. The sad thing is here is that Moran, who we already know to be a monster, can understand love, at least in a twisted sort of way—Moriarty can't.

As for Geoffrey and Annie… mm… Y'know, there's a reason they've had five children in their thirteen years of marriage. ^_^ Oh, and bravo to Annie for using three different languages in one little paragraph (my tongue is so firmly in my cheek…): English (obviously), Yiddish, and Welsh. Bless the online Yiddish dictionary!—_ kinderlekh_ means "dear children" or "darling children." _Tad_ is simply Welsh (and apparently Breton) for "Dad." Anyway… It's a wonderful life, Geoffrey!

*can't keep up the deadpan expression*

Ahem. Mycroft playing the Strad. Well, in all seriousness, it's possible that he might have had violin lessons—we just don't know. "Silent Night" was yet another nod to "Their First Christmas"—I've a feeling Sherlock's been thinking about it a lot…

Okay, anybody who read _Have Yourself a Chaotic Little Christmas_ last December _had_ to know the "Christmas gathering" scene. Deciding to redraft that scene from the original is probably what saved this chapter from a slow and torturous writing process—that was the point where I started to enjoy myself. There are two reasons for my calling Sherlock by his Christian name in his POV scenes. **1)** Mycroft is in the same room, and I've always held that it's ridiculous for the two brothers to be labeled as "Mycroft" and "Holmes" when they're together—they are _both_ Holmes! Even Watson didn't do that in the Canon: the scenes with Mycroft were the only times Watson ever called Sherlock, Sherlock! **2)** Sherlock is pretty open and unguarded at this point; it seemed very fitting to use his Christian name.

And, ha, he snarked! Sherlock Holmes actually snarked for the first time in… how many chapters? I don't even know! He's been pretty mild overall during this case! *laughs* Anyway, I think that the "intuition" exchange at the end of that scene was my favorite part of the entire sequence. Along with, well, just about everything I added to the original to flesh it out! :D

Lest you think I'm forgetting Moran, I haven't. I really enjoyed this prime opportunity to get into his head—I regard this scene as my best Moran scene. Of course, _we_ know that, in five months, Moran will well and truly hate himself for not following through on his orders tonight. But he doesn't, and he's taking the _colossal_ audacity to make his own call once again. (For Moran's own sake, he'd better find a way to redeem himself—fast. Need I say that Moriarty will really _not_ be happy?)

The scene between John and Mary was rewritten and lengthened from the original, which actually took place from John's POV. But that version was far too short and dry, and switching POVs really enriched it and had me enjoying the writing.

I have very little to say about Rose's scene, other than that I really infused all my own experience with motherhood (about as much as the firstborn of a large family can have) into those last two paragraphs.

So as not to clog the chapter up with one sentimental reunion after another, I did resort to "tell" with part of the Wiggins scene. Sorry about that—but, really… The best part, of course, was Wiggins forgetting himself and calling Holmes "Da"… *melts* And then, "the Merry Baker Street Irregulars"! Was anybody surprised at that little reveal? I mean, c'mon… *grins* And, oh, Wig, you've been hanging around your da for far too long.

I know I said a couple chapters ago that I thought I had ten-ish more to go. Well, I believe that I actually have only _two_ more chapters and an epilogue to go. There will be a sequel, you know, and there's lots of bonus material to consider. Which brings me to announce:

_Deliver Us from Evil: Beyond Mortality_!

This will be a collection of the rough drafts of bonus material. MadameGiry25, a certain edited Tankerville sequence comes to mind… This collection should help to wrap up a forgotten case with young Hopkins, that of Holmes's decoy corpse, as well as give the Lestrade family more screentime. Plus, a brief extension on a pre-existing scene between Lestrade and Patterson—Lestrade comes across an eerie piece of artwork. All this and more on its way in a few more weeks, so stay tuned!

Definitely stay tuned! The next chapter will have the very first scene in which Lestrade and Holmes speak with each other—very big, yes? Of course, the issues are chapter-plotting and time—no idea when I'll be able to post. Just…

_**Please keep reviewing!**_


	25. 24: Complications

**Author's Note:**

I NOW HAS COVERART FOR THIS FIC! *squees* To see it in full size (with the story's very first blurb, no less!), link here:  : / / aleineskyfire. deviantart #/d534xpa To see more, brand-new _Mortality_-related art (and an alternate blurb by Riandra!), see this folder: : / / aleineskyfire. deviantart gallery/37629603 Also, there is now some information about the sequel up on the TV Tropes page!  : / / tvtropes pmwiki/pmwiki. php/Fanfic/DeliverUsFromEvilSeries Please, do check this stuff out—I _promise_ it'll be worth your while!

Ah, and you have Riandra's bag of fertilizer to thank for this chapter coming out as soon as it did and not stalling! xD …inside joke, but it's a joke with a basis in uncanny reality!

Oh, and y'all might want to keep your eyes peeled for a _possible_ crossover between Sherlock Holmes and _Doctor Who_—9th Doctor, specifically. Yes, _Doctor Who_! My aunt and cousin have gotten me hooked! Although, I'm not going to try to write _any_ sort of DW fic before we're done with the 9th Doctor's series (this is a promise to myself as much as to anybody else). Christopher Eccleston's performance just captivates me, and, already, I very much understand the saying, "You never forget your first Doctor."

**To my reviewers:**

Riandra: You're welcome, hon! Like I said, #1 Fangirl. ;D D'aww! It was so nice to reunite Wiggins and Holmes after all this time—I'm so glad that you love their relationship, and I hope that you can explore that in your own story someday. *whistles innocently* Ooo, skin crawling… ^_^ Heh, I love writing Moran—he's such a complicated character! And once more… _awww_ again at your reaction to Mary and John together. *hugs* Hope you enjoy Holmes and Lestrade… Thank you for everything!

Ennui Enigma: Thank you very much! I'm really glad you like the carol montage. :D Well, here's another bit of Moran for your reading pleasure. Thanks again!

Ranger-Nova: ('S okay about the review—although, no, you can't delete a review, just report it for abuse. I'd hardly call your double-review abuse. ;D) Transcripts of _Sherlock_ S2? SQUEEEE—LINK PLZ! ^_^ Oh, I haven't even tried looking for _Star Trek_ in a long time—got caught up in other stuff, but I'd LOVE to have that zip file! *beams* That'd be fantastic! Re Granada: d'awww, you're breakin' my heart! I have a Brettian Sherlock Holmes playlist on my 'Tube channel—it's got the scenes between Moriarty and Holmes in Granada's FINA, if you can load them. Anyhoo… glad you liked the chapter so much! *grins* The Mycroft line is just slightly tweaked from a one-shot in _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_—I love it, too. :D (Yes. Yes, he is awesome.) Re Sherlock's premonition: awww. Heh, yeah, I was really happy to add that promise at the end. :) Glad you loved the Moran and Moriarty scenes! And, aw, that's too bad about SH22's timing. Hmm… there's the TV Tropes pages for the show, if you're interested—it's all fun. :D Thank you, and God bless!

j3n: Aww! *beams* Heh, yeah—as sappy a person as I truly am, there's only so much mush that I can write at once before whip-lashing the mood. :) Tee-hee, Moriarty and pre-transformation!Scrooge would have at least made good business partners, it's true—thank you! *blushes* And I'm so glad you love Annie! *smiles like an idiot* Thank you so very much for the lovely review!

MadameGiry25: *laughs* You're very welcome, doll—you deserve it! *hugs back* Re chapters/block: True and true and true! *shudders with you* Heh-heh, Davy… He needs to show up a little more in your story before you kill him off! He does. *nods* D'awww, so glad you liked the scene with Holmes and Rose! :D Mrs. Hudson… And Mary! *beams* Golly, woman, you just know how to make my day with your comments! *big grin* Yeah, Mary needs more of a chance to be the 5'3" powerhouse she really is, and, until now, she just hasn't gotten that. …I really need to do some more John/Mary. Might end up bawling, but I should do that… pick back up the collection about the baby… yeah… Anyhoo! Holmes and Wiggins! Glad you liked that! :) And Sherlock and Mycroft—love doing the interaction between those two, and I don't get to do that nearly enough. Caring!Mycroft… exactly the way I love to write him, especially since quite a few people write him otherwise. I can be a bit of rebel in the world of fandoms. :D I have to admit, your comment about you "knowing my style" makes me laugh, just because it's true! There really is only so much fluff I can write before I _have_ to initiate a Mood Whiplash, and bonus points for it fitting perfectly into _everything_ that's going on. It _was_ a good thing for him to get that jolt, yes. Absolutely. Re Moran: aw, go on! xD Seriously, though, thank you! And glad you liked the Moriarty bit, as well. *laughs at the Annie/Lestrade comment* Here's some more for you! Yes, edited Tankerville sequence! I'm still working on it, actually, but it ought to be better this time around. Aw, thanks so much, hon!

* * *

><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter XXIV==<strong>

**Complications**

When he pushes his way up to drowsy consciousness, he finds himself in bed. He frowns: _that isn't right… I should be on the settee… where…_ But Watson has taken up the chair at his bedside once again, and the grey light of a London winter brings his form into sharp relief. _Morning_.

"…Holmes?"

He comes back to the present and smiles slightly at Watson. "Sorry, old man. Mary?"

The words don't sound quite right in hindsight, but Watson understands. "She's back at the Forresters, Holmes, where she's been for over a month now."

_Over a month_… On one hand, it scarcely seems possible that he could have lost that much of his life, locked away in a dark hole. On the other hand, it seems _im_possible that that time didn't last an eternity. Watson's voice breaks into his thoughts once again. "Holmes, you're over-thinking again. Stop. You're incredibly lucky you did not overtax yourself yesterday—do you want to experience a relapse?"

_No, no relapse, please, please, I don't_… He's not aware that his heart is pounding swiftly against his ribcage until he suddenly has difficulty breathing.

"Oh, dear Lord." Prayer, not a curse. "Holmes, listen to me." _I _am_ listening, Watson_… "Breathe slowly. Can you do that? Deep breaths. In, out. In, out. Come now. Come now, Holmes, you can do this. In, out. In out."

He feels large, warm hands on his shoulders as he turns what mental powers he has towards the air coming in and out of his lungs. It's not enough, and it's far too fast. _Stop this_. In, out. In, out. Inhale, exhale. _Breathe, breathe,_ breathe.

He is back in the Thames, his lungs burning for sweet oxygen as the icy currents dragged him down, the filth of the water filling his mouth as he struggles against the relentless waves…

He is in the grip of Culverton Smith's disease again, every breath sending agony searing through his body, and he wants nothing more than to stop breathing…

He is being strangulated by that noose, his heart crashing in his throat as he thrashes, claws at air, panicking, whimpering, his windpipe slowly constricting…

He is lost in a world of blood-soaked shadows, every sensation a torment, a piercing feeling building in his throat and ripping his way from his mouth, burning his already-raw throat and burning out his voice…

"Holmes! Breathe, man! Sherlock Holmes, I am not losing you, do you hear me? Now, _breathe!_"

And then he is back in the present, tears rolling down his cheeks, scalding them, as he still struggles to draw in enough air.

It's too much. As he falls back into the darkness that always sits just at the edge of his consciousness, he wishes that he could have given Watson a better Christmas…

* * *

><p>As a child on the streets, Geoffrey Lestrade had developed the ability to sleep anywhere under any circumstances. This ability served him well as an overworked detective, and sleeping on the sofa with the children playing around him was a mere trifle compared to other places in which he'd slept. And when Annie came to join him, he sensed her presence and shifted to accommodate her. He distantly heard her shoo the children away before drifting back into deeper sleep.<p>

When he woke up, what light there was outside told him it was early in the afternoon. And he could hear his family in the kitchen…

Yawning, he stood and stretched, then smoothed back his hair with both hands to look halfway-presentable. His hair _always_ came out the worse for wear when he slept on the sofa. He was still straightening his rumpled clothes when he reached the kitchen and halted in the doorway.

"…and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father."

He leant against the doorjamb and drank in the sight of Jeremy reading _A Christmas Carol_ to the little ones clustered round him as Annie and Rhiannon prepared Christmas dinner. _So much his mum's son,_Geoffrey thought fondly. Some policemen's sons followed their fathers' footsteps—Jem would not be one of them. The boy had it in him to be a writer, just like his mother, and Geoffrey and Annie were seriously considering asking Dr. Watson to teach him the craft in a few years.

"He became as good a friend," Jeremy continued, oblivious to his father, "as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.

"He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed…"

The children finished altogether as their mother had taught them to do. "God bless us, everyone!"

Annie caught sight of him and grinned. "Inspector, I was afraid that you'd hibernate right through the rest of the year!"

"Can Tad do that?" six-year-old Andrew whispered to nine-year-old Rhiannon.

"'Course not! Shh!"

Geoffrey shook his head and sank into the chair at the head of the table. Baby Joan toddled up to him and clutched at his legs, babbling happy baby-talk. "'Lo there, sweetheart," he smiled indulgently. "Up you get." He lifted her up onto his lap and laughed as she proceeded to play with his pocket-watch. "Good heavens, you're getting heavy, little one."

She grinned up at him before returning her attention to the watch.

"Could a weary detective get a decent cup of coffee around—" Annie cut him off by plunking a steaming cup right before him. He blinked, then chuckled. "You're an angel, love."

"I know."

Geoffrey snorted into his cup as he took a long, slow draught. His wife encircled her arms around him and rested her chin on his shoulder. "You're going to Baker Street tonight," she murmured, "aren't you."

Sighing, he lowered his cup but kept his hands wrapped around it for the warmth that spread up his arms and gave him contented shivers. "You know that you sound like the Holmes brothers when you do that."

"Mm, no…" He could just feel her smile. "I simply sound like a wife what knows her husband."

He shook his head. "I'll wait until the children are abed. The Doctor shall likely still be awake."

"Do you think you'll be back tonight?"

"I'll certainly try, but I shan't promise."

"Very well." She planted a kiss on his cheek. "Do give Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes my love, and tell them that the children miss them."

* * *

><p>The anxiety attack had ended in Holmes being overwhelmed into unconsciousness. The entire thing had Watson terrified, not only that it had happened at all but that it had happened to <em>Sherlock Holmes<em>. Nightmares, fever dreams, memories… it wasn't the same as the Great Detective panicking at the mere _mention_ of a relapse.

And it was Watson's fault.

Holmes was on the mend now—there could be no doubt after last night. But he was still far from being whole again.

The invalid's eyes fluttered. "Holmes?" Watson whispered.

"All right, Watson," Holmes muttered hoarsely, not opening his eyes, "…don't look so scared."

Watson clapped a hand over his mouth as tears sprung to his eyes—that was the Sherlock Holmes he knew and loved. "Holmes, I'm so sorry. I didn't—"

Turning to Watson, Holmes opened his eyes, though he had difficulty in keeping them open. "M'fault. I over… I o-verr-ee-acted."

"Given what you've been through, my dear fellow, you are more than entitled to overreact." Watson smiled slightly through his tears. "I simply didn't want you to task your brain—it shall heal in its own good time, and then you can puzzle things out again with as much alacrity as you've ever done before."

The grey eyes had fluttered closed once more. "Do you… believe that?"

"After last night, when you proved to us just how strong you truly are, my dear Holmes?" The lump rising in his throat was making it deucedly difficult to talk. "I have no doubt whatsoever."

"…good," was Holmes's sleepy murmur.

Watson bent over him and readjusted the bedclothes. "Sweet dreams this time, old man." Only after he was certain Holmes was asleep did he allow his composure to crumble completely.

* * *

><p>Geoffrey Lestrade had not visited 221B's first floor since Mr. Holmes was first brought in, but the last news he'd had of the man was that the convalescence was heartrendingly slow. Trust Sherlock <em>bloody<em> Holmes to surprise him, to surprise them all.

Because when he arrived in the sitting room, the invalid was curled up in his own armchair by the fire. His face actually lit up beneath the bandages when he caught sight of Lestrade standing slack-jawed in the doorway. "Inspector!" he rasped happily. "Merry Christmas."

Watson, who sat on the settee, turned and smiled. "Lestrade, what a pleasant surprise! Come in!"

Lestrade ran a hand over his hair as he entered the room slowly, not taking his eyes off of the convalescent amateur. "You're on the mend," he said flatly, not daring to believe his eyes.

"Brilliant deduction, Lestrade," the amateur returned with far more mirth than was his wont. This couldn't be Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't possible. Not only should Mr. Holmes be not far from Death's door, but he should also be far graver, far more sardonic, if he was able to speak. This was… this was…

This was the Sherlock Holmes Lestrade had known long ago, the fledgling who was mourning his parents' deaths and who could sometimes put on a brave face before he'd eventually learnt to hide behind a wall of disdain and sarcasm. This was Sherlock Holmes open and unguarded, and, _dash_ it all, he was practically _chipper_.

And the emotion that rose to the fore in Lestrade's heart was anger. "How dare you," he said hoarsely.

Mr. Holmes was visibly taken aback. "I beg your pardon, Inspector?"

"How _dare_ you fright us all like this and then sit cool and calm as you please and…" Lestrade nearly choked on the storm of emotions raging inside him. "_How dare you?_"

The younger man looked very much as if he'd been kicked in the gut. Guilt flooded those large grey eyes before they turned their gaze to the floor. "All that I can offer you is that everything I have done, I did for those whom I lo… whom I regard as the best people in the world. If I have erred, I have paid the price in blood."

_And the blood of others,_ a nasty voice in Lestrade's head whispered. The image of the corpse in the mortuary would haunt him for a long time to come, particularly after meeting the dead man's family. And yet… the part of Lestrade that supposed he loved the idiot amateur anyway felt for Holmes. It was true—whatever mistakes he'd made, he'd paid very dearly for it.

He shook his head, abruptly feeling very tired. He stepped back towards the settee and realised that Watson had gotten up and left without his knowing it. He sank onto the seat and bowed his head. "I suppose I can accept that," he muttered. "But, damn it, it _wasn't your place_." Social status be hanged—for once, he was going to speak his mind, because he had a feeling they both needed it. It was not as if Holmes would try to get him booted out of the Yard for ignoring classes just this once—he'd actually saved him for doing so before. "It was never your place to put yourself in danger like this—that's what I'm here for."

"And how far could you or any of your colleagues go within the boundaries of the law?" Holmes asked wearily.

Lestrade jerked his head up sharply—there was a reason Holmes called the "best of professionals": he refused to go above the law he was sworn to uphold. "You're putting yourself above the law."

"Above man's law, yes, and by that you must be bound."

"By that _you_ must be bound, as well."

Only Sherlock Holmes could manage to draw himself up like royalty while still an invalid, though the grey eyes held determination rather disdain. "No," he said quietly. "There can be a significant difference between what the law states and what is _right_. You _know_ this, Lestrade. You work by this principle, yourself—you simply don't do so as blatantly as I."

Lestrade sighed. He wasn't going to win a debate against Sherlock Holmes—he never could, and he didn't really know why even bothered at this point. "You should have had someone with you rather than going off on your own," he said at last, kneading his temples.

"I wished not to have anyone come to harm on my account," was the quiet response.

Lestrade was not surprised at how sad he sounded when he countered, "Do you know how many people _did_ come to harm on your account?" But he instantly regretted it, could have kicked himself from here to Billingsgate when Holmes's face went sheet-white.

Failure was not simply an unknown word in Sherlock Holmes's vocabulary—it was the grossest profanity. He had no reservations in sharing victory, but he also possessed the self-destructive trait of taking sole, crushing responsibility for defeat. And Holmes took nothing harder than others coming to harm—still more, to death—as a result of his failures.

"Never mind," Lestrade muttered, trying to backtrack. "It couldn't be helped."

"How many?" Holmes whispered.

"Mr. Holmes, I—"

The younger man's face contorted. "Geoffrey. How. _Many_."

Lestrade grimaced at his given name and spread his hands helplessly. "Four constables—that's all I know for certain. Some of Mycroft's men. The Irregulars have miraculously—" _Oh, _blast_ it_.

The large grey eyes narrowed. "Yes, Inspector? What _have_ the Irregulars been doing?"

Lestrade closed his eyes and sighed. "Wiggins has been very deeply involved in this affair from beginning to end, and he's called upon the Irregulars' services from time to time. You have your boys to thank for finding your exact location—Peter, especially, I hear. And you have them to thank for foiling most of the attempts on your life."

He didn't think he'd ever seen Sherlock Holmes look so, well, fatherly—then again, perhaps "mother hen" was more apt for his expression. "Nevertheless, I believe Wiggins and I are due for a discussion."

"He and I have already had one," Lestrade offered. "It's less that he's allowing the boys—and only the older ones, mind you—into dangerous situations and more that he's holding back the whole lot of them from doing something foolishly heroic. Come to think of it, that sounds like someone I might know… can't imagine who…"

"My dear Lestrade, subtlety does not become you. You fail at it miserably."

Lestrade scowled, folding his arms. "Don't you get in a temper with me, sir. I'm not the man who had everyone dear to him scared to death for his life."

With that, Sherlock Holmes appeared to cave in on himself. His gaze dropped to the floor again. "I am truly sorry, Lestrade, and I do realise that this entire mess is my fault and mine alone."

Lestrade threw up his hands in exasperation. "Merciful heavens, would you kindly _stop_ looking like a puppy what's been kicked?"

One corner of Holmes's mouth pulled back, but his eyes remained focused on the floor.

The inspector sighed again, stood, and walked over to the armchair. He wrapped his arms around the younger man and held him close, feeling him stiffen and then all but melt into his embrace. "I'm sorry," Holmes choked out. "Dear God, I'm so sorry."

"Tell the Doctor that," Lestrade said gently. "Tell him, tell your brother. Tell your landlady. They've all been so afraid for you."

"I know. Lestrade, I swear before Heaven that I never intended—"

"I know. But for all those brains you've got, you simply don't _think_. You've got to learn to do that, sir."

"I make no promises," Holmes said, slightly calmer now, "but I can try."

"Good man." Lestrade broke away… And the long moment of closeness, of breaking past barriers, was gone. They were no longer a lost young man and surrogate father—they were an amateur, gentleman detective and an official, working-class inspector of Scotland Yard once more.

"Well," he said at last, not quite meeting Mr. Holmes's eyes. "I should be getting back ho—"

He heard the door swing open behind him, and Mr. Holmes murmured, "Mycroft."

* * *

><p>"My dear Colonel, you are cultivating the most appalling sense of errant recklessness." One would have expected Professor Moriarty to be unspeakably furious. Instead, Moran found him uncharacteristically weary, his posture fractionally slumped. Nothing was ever as it seemed with the Professor, but…<p>

"I apologise, sir," Moran said firmly, "but I could not do it."

One iron-grey eyebrow arched elegantly. "Pray tell, why not? Forgive me if I am wrong, Moran, but it is my understanding that you harbour the strongest ill-will against your target."

Moran sighed. "Sir, it was Christmas Eve. I've never killed man or beast on Christmas Eve, and I didn't intend to start now."

"Then you are more the fool," Moriarty said evenly, his head oscillating. Moran refused to be unsettled by it. "You had our best chance to kill Holmes—there may never be another as good. His protectors are so excellent that our spies cannot get close enough to observe them."

"I understand that, Professor. Might I respectfully point out that I did request to be sent out a week ago? I could have gotten through before the defences got so organised."

The skin around the Professor's grey eyes tightened. "You would lay the blame on me?"

"I would, indeed," Moran returned heatedly. "You need an assassination done—I'm your best man for it. Why did you not send me out sooner?"

"I required your services for more delicate killings, as well you know. Holmes's protectors were an unforeseen variable."

"I believe they're his boys, sir—the little street Arabs that have been following him for the past decade." Moran's lips thinned. "The ones that have grown up into men, those are the men that are making things difficult for us."

Moriarty turned his terrible gaze away from Moran, who suddenly found it easier to breathe. "If you are right, that is indeed a dilemma. Most of those boys have families—I have made inquiries into the lives of some of the older 'Baker Street Irregulars.' Our policy has always been to keep enemy casualties to a minimum, localised. Attempting to kill any one of the Irregulars could well start a full-scale war in the London Underworld, and that must be avoided at all costs."

"And killing Holmes will not have the same effect?"

"Kill Holmes, and you have an army without its general. Even his protégé must know that he cannot hope to defeat us on his own."

Moran sighed, kneading his temples. "Professor, midnight is coming on. I'd be more than happy to take care of the 'general' now, if you like."

Moriarty turned a smile upon him, not simply mirthless but utterly devoid of emotion. "Why, my dear Moran, what an excellent notion."

Moran's eyebrows drew together. "Professor, I do not enjoy disobeying your orders. But I could not, in good conscience, carry that one out. Not at that time."

"And what does that make you, Colonel?" Moriarty sneered. "A soldier with a heart?"

Moran raised his chin. "I hope so, sir." He moved to leave, then stopped in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder. "It would be deucedly difficult to live without one." He summoned up the colossal audacity to flash a smile.

Moriarty simply cocked an eyebrow and shook his head as Moran shut the door behind him. Well, Moran had allowed Sherlock Holmes and Major Watson one last Christmas together, one "last meal". Now, the time had come for them both to pay the piper.

The Colonel looked forward to delivering.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Mm! This last scene is the third version of it; the first two were awful. This one more accurately reflects the original in my imagination—y'know, the scene that springs to life in your head at that point in time when you can't go type it out or write it down. This one gives Moran a slightly more equal footing with the Professor than we've previously seen, which was really a joy to write. Originally, I'd also thought to intersect this scene with the 221B scene, at least partially. Then I decided against it—save it for the screenplay. ;D

As for Lestrade and Holmes… I can't tell you how nervous I was (and still am!) about that scene. They're just so _candid_… I'm scared that I overdid it. I like the scene—liked it even better once I polished it up—but I'm still scared. BUT. The paragraph about Holmes and failure I really love—that's taken from my SH22 fic, _It's a Wonderful Life, Sherlock Holmes_.

Btw… _"All right, Watson," Holmes muttered hoarsely, not opening his eyes, "…don't look so scared."_ C'mon, you gotta know what that's from, 'specially if you're a Granada fan! 'Tis none other than "The Illustrious Client," one of my most favorite episodes and later stories! Poor Watson…

The Lestrade family! I can't tell you how long I've waited to do a scene like this, with the entire family! *beams* Another rewritten scene (and the original was holding up the rest of the chapter), and the rewrite is _fantastically_ better! Heh, and Geoffrey's bed-head is SO based on one adorable scene in Granada's "The Six Napoleons," in which Holmes wakes up Watson and Lestrade in the sitting room, and Lestrade (who's been on the settee) has quite the messy hair! :D

Actually, I pretty much hated writing the opening scene. I believe it's necessary to the story—Holmes isn't completely in the clear—but I've had enough of these bedside/torture scenes. I have just had _enough_.

Well! Come to find out, we're going to have TWO more chapters after this! Yes, really! What's coming next might make a short chapter, but to put two unrelated pieces together in the same chapter… It wouldn't work, trust me. You'll see what I'm talking about soon enough! In the meantime… well, you know the drill! Stay tuned aaand…

_**Please review!**_


	26. 25: Together

**Author's Note:**

At last. _At laaaast_, this chapter is COOOOMPLETEEED! Am I elated? Oh, yes. Was that hammy and unprofessional? But definitely! YOU WOULD BE HAMMY AND UNPROFESSIONAL TOO IF AN INCOMPLETE CHAPTER HAD BEEN TORTURING YOU FOR A MONTH.

…wow, that felt so good to say. Ahem. I'm not entirely sure about this chapter (awfully short, for one thing), but it feels so good to have something even _resembling_ a completed chapter that I. Don't. Care. Really, I don't. So feel free to make suggestions on how to improve it and I'll probably accept them with a glad and grateful heart!

Btw, this tale has now surpassed the 75,000 word mark and can be officially labeled a novel! Yaaay!

**To my wonderful, patient reviewers:**

Riandra: Let's see—I might have replied to your feedback already, but I can't recall, so… ;D I think I did say that I was relieved that you thought I got Lestrade and Holmes right! :D Heh, yeah, I've had panic attacks myself… *shivers with you* No fun.

Historian1912: Heh, no, you weren't the only one. In all seriousness, torturing Holmes is only fun up to a point. Once you get past that point, it might still be necessary for reality's sake, but it's no longer fun. I passed that point months ago, so trust me, this was much harder for me to write than for you to read. Um, if I was talking about _Chaotic Christmas_ (I think I was), then I was referring to the Christmas Eve entry—trust me, that one's easy to find. Yeeeah, writing something and then having to throw it out, multiple times no less, is never fun. Did it with this chapter and, well…

Ennui Enigma: I really liked the part when Lestrade is thinking about Jeremy and writing and Watson—that was fun to write, and it was another nice way to show Lestrade's respect for Watson (as well as reveal a little more background for Annie). Ha-ha, glad you liked that one line so much! That was one of my favorites, too. :-) And I'm also very glad that you liked how Moran held his own against Moriarty, and with some good lines to boot! Frankly, that's going down as one of my most favorite scenes in the entire book, I think, just because of how Moran handles himself. Anyhoo… Thank you so much for all the lovely praise!

Ranger-Nova: *giggles* I've gotten into _Doctor Who_ full stop! You really ought to check it out if you can—it's just amazing! I really think you'd love it! Ah, I think you didn't filter those links thoroughly enough—FFN still cut most of both addresses out. : ( LOL about the Sherlock vids! Trouble finding Granada clips, eh? Hmm… well, there are about a million AMVs out there, so that probably doesn't help when you're rummaging around the 'Tube. *grins* Y'know, I think that Sherlock wouldn't even mind getting a hug right about now… I'm so glad you liked the scene with the Lestrade family—I'm the oldest of several kids, myself, so big families tend to crop up _somewhere_ in my stories. ;D Oh, you can bet your top dollar that Jeremy was named after my favorite Sherlock Holmes actor! Jolly good observation there. xD And lol about Holmes and Lestrade arguing. It was lovely to finally get them in a scene together when they're actually interacting. Ha-ha, glad you loved the puppy line—I most often see Holmes as being catlike (it's canonical, after all, and Jeremy Brett's portrayal certainly helps), but Holmes strikes me as being very puppy-ish when he's being pitiful or whatnot. ^_^ So glad, too, that you liked the Moran/Moriarty scene so much! That end there, totally my favorite bit. :D Aww! *blushes* Hey, don't think for one minute that the story will be finished once we hit the epilogue! There'll be extra scenes coming soon afterward (hopefully, anyway), and it shouldn't be too long before I get started on _The Road to Reichenbach _(I think it would be a good thing to show my potential publishers that I have a sequel in the works when I present _Mortality_). And you might well be seeing more related art from me on dA, so it's all good! :-)

Rachel G: Hee, thank you so much! *beams*

j3ntheninja: Wow, you really registered on the site just to review me? *blushes* I'm very flattered! Thank you! Oh, I fully intend to do my Doctor Who/Sherlock Holmes crossover one of these days—it just might take some time. Oh yes, the line about giving Watson a better Christmas… for me, that was the best part. _A Christmas Carol_ was totally unexpected, but it has made a surprisingly good motif—I'm so glad you like it! Oh, I love that "royalty" bit, too! And it's so perfectly Lestrade, you know? I mean, you can just hear the dryness. And, heh, I _love_ writing Moriarty—I really do. If writing different people was like eating food, Moriarty would be a very rich, very exquisite dessert—that's just how much I enjoy writing him! Anyhoo… Aww, thank you so very much!

MadameGiry25: *giggles about the crossover* I'm really glad you liked the one-shot, and, really, I can't wait to do more—I just have to work out plots and timelines. Can't wait to see more of Davy! :D And, d'ohhh… *blushes* Glad you liked the Lestrade family scene, and Lestrade/Annie, especially! *beams* Yeeeah, I wasn't sure about "anxiety attack" being an old enough term, but I figured I'd use it now and correct it later if I had to. Problem is, I've looked it up in several different places, and I can't get any real history on the term. : ( Oh, I know—watching Holmes struggle just to speak is heartbreaking. …and on the other hand, I'm going to miss being able to do it. *guilty smile* Glad you liked Lestrade w/Holmes and all! And I love the failure line—I'm thrilled you like it so much! :D Yes, I think that, as much of a punch to the gut as it was for Holmes to hear about the deaths, it was a punch to the gut that he _needed_. He needed to hear that (now why does that remind me of a certain, ahem, time-traveler…?). I won't intersect the Moran/Moriarty scene with Lestrade/Holmes—too distracting, yes? So glad you liked that scene, too! xD Anyway… aww, thank you so much for all the encouragement! You really played a big part in my coming this far!

* * *

><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter XXV==<strong>

**Together**

Making the necessary arrangements had taken him all day. At any other time of the year, things would have moved much more swiftly, but even the British Government slowed down on Christmas Day. So it was not until half past ten that Mycroft Holmes arrived at 221B Baker Street, and he thanked Providence for Lestrade's presence. One could never have too many allies in a dangerous situation.

"Mycroft," Sherlock murmured from his armchair.

"Sherlock, Inspector," Mycroft greeted. He cast a critical eye over his brother, who looked much the same as he had the night before. Weary, wasted, and wan… but bearing a flame of rediscovered determination. It was visible in the luminosity of his eyes, the set of his jaw, the minute tension of his posture. Robin Hood had indeed returned to his Merry Men.

And it was Little John's task to ensure that Robin stayed alive.

"You are leaving, _mon petit frère_," Mycroft said quickly and factually. "Tonight."

Sherlock accepted that with a sharp nod and said, "I trust you have already informed Watson?" No doubt about it: Sherlock Edward Holmes was back.

"He is upstairs packing even ask we speak."

"If you need a hand, sir," Lestrade offered.

"I believe we may," said Mycroft. "If you would be so kind as to pack a valise for my brother?"

Lestrade gave a little salute. "Gladly, sir."

The Inspector moved into the next room, leaving the two brothers alone with each other for the first time in two months. (Mycroft had not thought himself able to endure a vigil whilst Sherlock was still bedridden.) Predictably, the younger was the first to speak. "Where to, and why now?"

"To my flat. Dr. Watson would not allow you to be moved before—he said that you did not take well to the Mariah when you were brought here."

"Ah." The limpid grey eyes (Mother's eyes—all of Mother that Mycroft has left is in his brother) fluttered closed. "Shall I be any safer with you?"

Mycroft arched a very aristocratic eyebrow. "My _dear_ boy, do you not suppose that the security of the British Government Personified would be second _only_ to that of Her Majesty, the Queen Victoria herself?"

His little brother snorted ironically. "No… Forgive me if I supposed that any and all would-be assassins would flee in abject terror at the sight of you."

"You are decidedly _not_ forgiven, sir!" Mycroft thundered, quite facetiously. Sherlock Holmes was most definitely himself when his sardonic wit was restored.

The feigned vehemence of Mycroft's reply elicited a chuckle, though the boy's eyes remained closed. "Oh, my dear Mycroft," he said, sighing. "You cannot _think_ how I have missed you."

"I imagine it could not have been more than _I_ have missed _you_."

"Perhaps." He was sounding tired again. "I dreamt of you, you know. Sometimes. Even called for you, if I remember aright." A bitter smile of triumph warped the pale features. "No matter what they did, they could never make me say any more than your name… or Watson's."

Mycroft was glad that his brother's eyes were closed, for they could not see the horror in his expression. "If I have given you… an anchor to cling to… I should indeed be glad." There was no masking the unsteadiness of his voice—Sherlock's admission had shaken him thoroughly.

Sherlock opened one eye, then the other, and smiled genuinely. "Oh, brother mine. You helped me to be strong."

It was only then that Mycroft was aware of his own tears.

* * *

><p>"Oh, Mycroft," Sherlock murmured fondly. He could not recall when he had last seen his brother cry, but certainly he must have been a child. Watson labelled him as stoic on occasion—even "positively inhuman," during the Sholto Case—but Sherlock's reserve had always paled in comparison to Mycroft's. To see his elder brother shedding tears now… Sherlock was compelled to avert his gaze before he followed suit.<p>

"Do you know," he said at last, "I have spent the evening contemplating the events of the past two months? Coupled with some remonstrance on Lestrade's part, I have come to some sobering conclusions."

"If they have taught you to take better care of yourself—" Mycroft began sternly.

"Mycroft, please." Sherlock sighed and settled further back in his chair. "What I experienced was horrific, a fate I should not wish upon even those who inflicted it, and Lestrade has given me some idea of the evil that has come of it all." He grimaced as his chest began to ache at the mere thought of it. "I deeply regret that I have not been the only one to suffer for my actions."

It did hurt. Terribly. "A benefactor of the race," Watson had called him just two months earlier, though it seemed a lifetime ago. But how could that be when his recklessness led to the injuries—even deaths—of others?

Mycroft sighed, as well. "Sherlock, in the end, who is to say that all this is truly your fault? You might have been kidnapped or even killed regardless of where you were—being caught out in the early hours of the morning might simply have hastened events that would have happened no matter what."

Sherlock clamped his hand over his mouth against the bile that rose in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing the acid back down. When he was able to speak again, it was only in a broken voice with which he was all too familiar. "Nevertheless, brother mine, I am well and truly _sorry_."

"I have already forgiven you, _mon petit frère_," the elder brother said gently. "I shall feel the better for hearing these conclusions you've drawn, but I should do so once you're safely ensconced on Pall Mall."

The younger nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak.

"Now come, Sherlock." Mycroft rose to his feet, the action swifter than it would have been two months ago. "Time to put on your coat and go."

Sherlock glanced down at his state of dress—namely, his nightshirt and dressing gown—and looked back up at his brother with a raised eyebrow.

"It will have to do," Mycroft said in that brotherly tone that brooked no argument.

The brothers, the doctor, and the inspector were all piling into the cab when they heard the rattle and clip-clop of another cab approaching. Sherlock was struck with a sense of immediate danger and glanced at Watson—his friend's dark eyes were wide beneath drawn brows. "Mycroft, hurry!" Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft entered the cab and shut the door. "For heaven's sake, Sher—"

Watson rapped sharply against the roof of the cab, and Mycroft fell into his seat beside his brother. "What on earth?" he demanded.

"Shush!" Sherlock hissed. Beyond the noise of their own cab, he could still hear the other, gaining speed. "We're being followed."

Watson's eyes flashed in the light of a streetlamp as they passed. He rapped the ceiling and barked, "Drive as quick as you can, man!"

The horse bolted forward, jolting them all—Sherlock the hardest. He cried out in pain, then pushed Mycroft's hand away. "I'm all right," he gasped. Straining his ears, he could make out the sound of the other cab driving at a furious pace.

He caught a look shared between Lestrade and Watson. "Do you think it could be Moran?" Lestrade said carefully.

Watson's expression could have rivalled a thunderhead for storminess. "I certainly wouldn't rule out the possibility."

Sherlock clenched his fists weakly and found that they were slick with sweat.

"_Shall we have another try at it, Mr. Holmes? I don't have to break you. I don't even have to kill you. You are already broken."_

He huddled down into his too-large greatcoat and shivered. Moran had accomplished one thing: he had taught Sherlock Holmes what terror truly was. Terror was cold and chains and absolute darkness and emptiness; terror was not seeing his tormentor but knowing that he was there and being unable to do _anything_ but waiting for him to strike. Terror was the pain dragging on and on and not stopping and his fear that it never would end. Terror was being trapped in blackness far away from everyone who ever meant anything to him. Terror was Moran's cruel bass and Moriarty's sibilant baritone.

Terror was the fear that the people dearest to him would share his fate.

Locked away in hole in the East End, his terror had only weakened him. But here in a cab, surrounded by his brother, his Boswell, and his (truth be told) favourite Yarder, he could gather up the scattered pieces of his will and make his terror a weapon. He refused to let it rule him any longer.

He would be angry. He would allow himself that. The kind of cold anger, quiet and utterly deadly that had so cowed criminals in the past… he would use that now.

His hand slipped into his pocket and settled around the comforting shape of his revolver. Across from him, he saw Watson's hand disappearing into his own coat. Sherlock caught his eye, and they shared a brief, grim smile. Moran or Moriarty, one or both of them had made a grave miscalculation. Divided, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were strong but only so strong.

Together, they were more than the sum of their parts. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with.

* * *

><p>Rage was first and foremost in Colonel Moran's mind. Had he arrived mere seconds sooner, he could have shot Sherlock Holmes as he left his own front door. Now the detective was obviously alerted to the colonel's presence, for the cab ahead was taking the streets of London at a furious clip. Still, Moran could not say that he was surprised at Holmes's flight—Baker Street was simply too hot to hold him any longer.<p>

No matter. This was a delay, not a fai— He lifted his airgun just a fraction and fired as the cab ahead took a sharp turn. Something whizzed just past his head a mere second later. Cursing, he whipped around to see a bullet hole in the opposite side of his cab.

The next time the cab ahead was to take a turn, his driver—his private driver—warned him. He took aim…

Heard an exceptionally loud whizzing bullet.

Squeezed the trigger.

Fell back as his left shoulder exploded, and another bullet whizzed harmlessly past his ear.

Collided with the back of the cab, knocking the breath out of him.

His world smoked swiftly away to darkness.

* * *

><p>Throwing himself to the floor knocked the wind out of him and made all his many injuries flare up in protest. Moran's bullet, however, planted itself harmlessly in the side of the cab, and he could hear the other cabbie shouting to his horses. He met Watson's concerned expression with a fierce grin. "I think that time did it, old man."<p>

"Half a moment," was Watson's response as he pulled himself back up to peep out the window. "The cab is turning away… by _George_, Holmes, I think we did it!"

"Yes, well, you two can congratulate yourselves later once we actually have him behind bars and young Mr. Holmes safe," Lestrade said drily. There was no mistaking, however, the undercurrent of fondness in his voice.

"Quite right, Inspector," said Mycroft, nodding. "But well done all the same, Sherlock, Doctor. Well done."

Sherlock caught Watson's eye once more and found himself laughing. A moment later, and Watson was joining him. They were both alive, and they had just bested a formidable foe, just one or two hours past Christmas. It was a good day to be alive.

* * *

><p>Professor Moriarty sighed as he prepared himself for the Pall Mall New Year's Eve Ball. Charity function, at which he was most certainly expected to appear. All the niceties, great and small, of social life that must be endured! He shook his head and returned his thoughts to more pertinent matters.<p>

Moran was still out of commission. The bullet in his shoulder had been bad enough, but then for him to have lost so much blood on such a dreadful ride back to Moriarty's own private medical facilities… The Colonel was quite lucky to have survived.

Moriarty would not punish him for his failure. Moran had been punished quite enough, and would bear the shame of a failed assassination for a very long time to come. Moriarty need do nothing more.

Indeed, he contemplated the notion of letting Sherlock Holmes go for the time being. Morale in his empire was quite low, fearing rather than gloating over the Great Detective, who had risen to near-mythic proportions in their esteem. Ideas, as Moriarty well knew, are difficult to kill. He might well need to wait for the backlash of the entire debacle to fade away before he could take any further action against his exceptionally strong opponent.

At the ball itself, he was making the rounds, greeting those who must be greeted, when he came face to face with a younger man quite his own height and much larger. "Ah, Professor Moriarty," the younger man greeted with a smile. "What a pleasant surprise to see you here!"

"As it is to see _you_ here, my good sir," Moriarty returned cordially. "You so seldom leave the comforts of your personal sphere."

The younger man chuckled. "Ah, well, I find myself obliged to be seen at these gatherings every other year or so."

The professor accepted that with a nod. "Quite so. And how is your younger brother, Mr. Holmes?"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Muwahahahaha~! …ahem. :D Don't worry, we'll see the conclusion of this scene next time… whenever that time comes… ^_^

The entire Moran sequence was holding me up for the better part of the past month, and it was wall-bangingly frustrating. You may not have noticed, but I have extreme difficulty in writing action sequences. And the longer they last, the more trouble I have.

…really, I'd like to be able to gush about this or that being fantastic, but it's all given me far too much grief for me to really feel much of anything about this chapter, except for a _profound_ sense of relief. The opening scene, though, I _do_ still like, simply because, well, it was simple! I especially love this line: "Forgive me if I supposed that any and all would-be assassins would flee in abject terror at the sight of you." xDDD Typical cheeky little brother! Speaking of brothers, we'll also get to see a continuation of the conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft, because I think Sherlock has some thoughts to voice.

Next up, Mycroft and Moriarty finish their little tête-à-tête, Sherlock and Mycroft finish the aforementioned conversation, and Sherlock receives a certain offer of employment, much to the consternation of his brother and best friend. (And did I mention that it'll be the last chapter before the epilogue?) Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	27. 26: All Those Little Problems

**Author's Note:**

You know… this fic really should have been finished back in, oh, I'd say June. Sooner than that, even. Instead, these last few chapters have given me nothing but grief. This one, in particular, refused to be finished until one night weeks after it had been started… and it wasn't finished until _after_ midnight. *sigh*

On a brighter note (for me, anyway), this is the last chapter! After this, just the epilogue (which itself is also being a pain), and then I'm ready to write the bonus material! (I'd break out the hats and streamers and all, but I'm a bit too fatigued for that right now.)

As a warning, however: I'm actually going to college this fall, and I'm planning to get an Associates degree in graphic design. This does mean that, yeah, I'll be busy. Maybe, though, the extra activity will encourage my imagination to relax and thereby work better—I really think this whole "going-back-to-school" thing will be good for me. I need something positive in my life right now (reviews are lovely, but _Mortality_ has not been helping me battle my depression for a very long time).

**To my reviewers!**

Guest: I'm sorry—if you've reviewed before, I'm afraid I can't place you. The site listed you merely as "Guest". =( But thank you very much for the review! Ha-ha, yes, Moran absolutely had that bullet coming. It's one thing about the Canon that's always bothered me: Moriarty died and Moran remained alive in prison. Granted, Moriarty had more blood on his hands, but Moran had to have had a _lot_, himself, and far more directly than Moriarty. Besides which, I blame the Great Hiatus on Moran. :P No, Moriarty hasn't suffered for his crimes yet, but give it some time—I think the sequel will not be very kind to him. ^_^

j3ntheninja: Thanks very much! Tee-hee, Mycroft. Actually, "Little John" is meant to refer to Mycroft, in this instance, as a subtle reference to the brothers' childhood—maybe a bit _too_ subtle. *blushes* I'm so glad you liked the scene between them—I really love it as one of the few scenes between them that takes place in reality and real-time in the fic. ^_^ And, yes, I really like how Holmes came out in that chapter, his nobility (nice way of putting it, and totally true!) and his courage. Lol, Moran _absolutely_ deserved what he got. No, I don't think it's bad that you're rooting for Mycroft to punch the, ahem, living daylights out of Moriarty—he certainly _wants_ to. Thanks for the suggestion regarding Moran—I'll keep it in mind! =) Anyway, thank you again!

Ennui Enigma: Wow, thanks! I'm so glad you think I still managed a quality chapter last time! =) Oh, I love writing scenes with Mycroft and Sherlock—there's a great dynamic there, and it's one I can never get enough of. Aw, I'm so glad you liked that line, and thank you again for everything! *blushes*

Rachel G: Lol. Enjoy!

Ranger-Nova: Well, from what I've seen of it, the classic (pre-90s) Doctor Who is very fun, and I really like the Third Doctor (Jon Pertwee). Mm… I tried both those links and they appear to still be… not fully there. Either that or obsolete… Ah, it's okay, really—just never mind. =) Aw, phooey upon your bandwidth! =( Ooo, yay for being a Mycroft fan! ^_^ I wasn't really a fan of him, myself, until I watched Mark Gatiss's portrayal in _Sherlock_—and _Sherlock_ fans will certainly see where I'm channeling his performance in this chapter. ;D Lol, high-five on loving that one line! …so much fun to see Sherlock's snarky self making a comeback. xDDD Moran getting shot was the _only_ way the entire affair could have ended without somebody dying (and thus going into massive AU territory)—either Sherlock would have died or Moriarty would have had Moran executed for failing his job _again_. The only other option was for Moran to be incapacitated—Moriarty wouldn't kill his lieutenant for getting shot, especially when he would probably be well aware that Holmes and Watson are good shots. Ha-ha, well, I had to end the chapter _somehow_, and that seemed like a really good way to do it, especially since I haven't had many actual cliffhangers in this novel. Thanks so much for the love and support, hon! *hugs*

Belphegor: Thank you very much! I'm really glad to hear that you can enjoy this story despite all the torture… That sounded really weird. O.o Anyhoo… ahhh, another Aragonite fan! High-five! Re Lestrade: Oh, I know—I can't imagine his having any name other than _Geoffrey_, either! It's just too perfect. I'm thrilled that you like Lestrade and Gregson's antagonistic friendship so much and that you love Sean Youghal being one of the former Irregulars! (You're also one of the very few people to comment on that second bit, so thank you very much!) Yeah, I meant to have a _lot_ more of Bradstreet, and he just kind of faded out of my focus as the story went on. For that matter, _Hopkins_ was supposed to have had a more substantial role. Hopefully, they'll get more screentime in the finished product. I'm so glad you like the characterizations and interactions of the Holmes brothers, and you're right: it's not a relationship explored very much in fanfiction (not on the canonical side of things anyway—_Sherlock_ is another matter entirely). And I'm really so very thrilled that you love what I've done with Holmes and Mary and their relationship! That's one of my favorite things in writing this story. =) Ah, thank you for the French correction! I do have two BFFs who know French very well—I don't ask them for help as often as I should. *blushes* I just might have to take some classes… YES, the titans clash, indeed—that is _exactly_ what I call that scene in my head! =D Thank you again!

MadameGiry25: D'aw, at least you finally made it! =) Lol, I think you have mentioned your love of the Robin Hood references, but I'm glad you're still enjoying them! *grins* It just struck me as something cute the brothers might have done when they were kids. I really love getting to bring Sherlock back now (and is it wrong that I'm hearing the Doctor's Season 4 theme when I think about it?). Ha-ha, Mycroft and Sherlock—I'm so glad you like their scenes together! And my combo!Mycroft thrills you? _Squeeee_~! I'm glad you thought the transition between the brother's POVs was smooth—that was something that had me concerned. Originally, that conversation went on to its conclusion, and that was actually holding up the rest of the chapter, because I couldn't figure out how to make a viable transition from the conversation to the action following. But as it turns out, the continuation of the conversation didn't fit into this chapter when all was said and done, so it will be returning, edited, to the previous chapter. It'll make an appearance in the coming collection of missing material, don't worry! You think the Moran scene was scary? Really? *tilts head* I thought it was, well, not enough—not at all—but I _do_ have a difficult time writing action-movie-type scenes like this. I just might take you up on that offer—thanks, hon. =) I honestly don't mind any delay in your review—it sure took me long enough to post up these last few chapters! And thank you so much for all the praise and encouragement! *big hug*

2ndbestdetective: Thank you! I'm glad that you think my story is unique! =) Of course, I know that there will always be people who disagree with my rather more emotional portrayal, but, with all due respect, I believe that I am staying true to the Canon in this regard. Sherlock Holmes was quite an emotional man, for all that he professed to the contrary, and he was pretty sentimental, to boot. Mm, I can't wait to get to Reichenbach, and you're right—few people come close to getting it right. I would say that the BBC came the closest to having something truly heart-in-your-throat, even if Sherlock's survival was still a forgone conclusion. Ha-ha, so glad you like Watson's heroic role! Thank you again!

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><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Chapter XXVI==<strong>

**All Those Little Problems**

Sherlock Holmes stood in the rain, arms outstretched to embrace the weeping skies. He shut his eyes, tilted his head up, and let the rain wash over his face. He inhaled deeply, breathing the dark, wonderful scent of the earth being scrubbed clean.

He felt alive, alive, _alive_.

He felt seventeen again, dazzling and invincible, his entire life stretching out before him. He could almost, almost trick himself into believing that Annie and Breandán were out there somewhere, past the trees, and that they would be coming 'round after the rain. He could almost trick himself into believing it.

But wishful thinking, no matter how heartfelt, could not overcome the precise, analytical nature of his mind. Annie was dead, and Breandán, for all he knew, was still in Ireland. Even so… even so, he could picture them running over the grassy rise, hand in hand, Breandán calling out to him in Gaelic and Annie singing "Scarborough Fair".

And he could picture Mother dancing with him in the rain, because Mother was special, so very unlike the insipid women of her status… Mother had given him his zeal for life, his need to reach for the highest heights, never to settle for an ordinary existence.

He opened his eyes, and there she was before him, smiling sadly. Her smiles were never without a hint of sorrow in his dreams. It hurt to see that—it was not unlike seeing John or Mary smiling with sadness in their eyes.

"Go on, Sherlock," Mother said gently. "You have lingered here long enough. The time has come for you to return to living your life."

He blinked rapidly, hoping that the water rolling down his face was rainwater only. "I know," was all he could manage.

She reached for his face and stroked it, brushing away droplets that were now undeniably tears. "You have such a magnificent life, darling."

He exhaled in a hiss, nodding. "I know," he said, more firmly this time. "But I am missing you already."

"You can always find me again with that wonderful imagination of yours." She tilted her head, smiling more fully at him, her grey eyes warm. "You simply do not make a concentrated effort."

He meant to say "I love you, Mother." What he said instead was, "_Merci beaucoup, ma mère_."

She stroked his cheek again, leant in and kissed his forehead.

He blinked.

She was gone, and he was back in Mycroft's house. Rain and snow pattered gently against the window, and the fire was out, leaving the bedroom a dim blue-grey. He pressed his face into his pillow and silently wept.

* * *

><p>The envelope resting unobtrusively on the table was very distinctly French and of the finest quality.<p>

To say that Mycroft was unhappy and Watson concerned at the arrival of this letter from the French ambassador would have been a severe understatement. Mycroft rather resembled a thundercloud, and Sherlock could not suppress a smirk at the sight. "Sherlock," the elder brother said in a tone that managed be stern and longsuffering simultaneously. "Do not even consider it."

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "Rather late for that, brother mine."

"I forbid you to—"

Sherlock barked a laugh that sounded altogether too harsh and bitter in his own ears. "When was the last time you 'forbade' me to do anything and actually managed it, Mycroft?"

Sometimes, he did well, felt optimistic about his recovery, rattled off plans to Watson during the Doctor's visits. Then the wind would shift directions, and he would feel decidedly claustrophobic, morose, frustrated… and, yes, bitter. He would have asked for his seven-per-cent solution (yes, even from Watson—such was the extent of his depression), but… he knew it would be months before he could so much as _look_ at a syringe without shivering.

"Holmes, please," Watson murmured.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Even for you, it would be remarkably foolhardy to attempt a case whilst recovering from such serious illness and injury, let alone such an assignment from the French government."

The younger Holmes rested his chin on his palm. "I may be safer in France than I am here in London—I cannot remain in this house forever, and even the finest security in the British Empire might falter when the empire's greatest criminal fraternity is at work."

Mycroft opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off. "In any case, I've not lived this long by trusting to the tender mercies of any of my foes, _least_ of all Professor James Moriarty. France may not be outside his reach, but his power is invariably weakened once it reaches the Channel."

"That much is true," Watson admitted, running a hand over his face and his returning moustache. The man looked entirely too tired, and Sherlock felt an entirely too familiar ache of guilt in his chest. Watson was wearing thin, and it was on Sherlock's account.

"It is out of the question," Mycroft insisted.

Sherlock glanced at his friend. "Watson?"

The Doctor sighed. "Holmes, I… I am torn. As a medical man, all my instincts are telling me to keep you here under supervision until you are fully recovered. Assassination attempts aside, you have come quite close to dying not once, not twice, but several times." He paused.

"And yet," Sherlock prompted.

"And yet… you would most likely be safer there." Watson smiled ruefully. "London may be your city, my dear fellow, but it was Moriarty's long before you arrived on the stage."

Sherlock chuckled, then laughed outright when he noticed Mycroft's sour expression. "Brava, Watson. My _dear_ Mycroft, you of all people should understand the importance of rising to the occasion when a government calls."

Mycroft took a short but deep breath, and Sherlock knew he was counting to ten in his head. "Sherlock. You are not. Leaving. London. I have had some news of this matter, and, if I understand it aright, it requires more energy than you are yet able to give. If you so wish, I can convey your regrets to the ambassador myself."

His eyes narrowing, Sherlock leant back and pressed his hands together beneath his chin. "It would seem that anything I have to say about the matter is entirely futile," he said acidly, plans already forming in his mind. "Do what you will, Mycroft—you always have. Why should I stop you now?"

Watson winced.

Mycroft's eyes took on that steely, near-frightening look with which Sherlock was quite familiar. "I do this for your own good, _mon petit frère_." He rose from his seat on his settee. "There is a time for everything, do recall—and now is not yet the time for you to be gallivanting across France." He turned to Watson and said, "Do stop by my study before you leave, Doctor? Perhaps we could trade insights on my brother's obstinacy."

Watson waited, wide-eyed, for Mycroft to shut the sitting room door behind him before he spoke. "Holmes, that was _quite_ out of bounds."

"Watson, I shall thank you not to comment upon my dealings with my brother," Sherlock said in a low tone.

But the doctor was having none of it. "After all he has done for you! And surely his weariness has not escaped your notice—the stress of your plight wore him quite thin. Literally."

Sherlock was not quite angry, but he was indeed more than a tad frustrated. "Of course I can see that!" he snapped. "I am well and truly sorry to have been the cause of so much distress for him, but I shall not be ordered about as if I were a child. You don't know my brother, Watson. He has _always_ been overprotective, and he has _never_ fully understood my constant need for mental stimulation. I. _Need_. A. Case."

"You've not been coherent for even a fortnight yet!" Watson protested.

"And one more fortnight idled away would drive me mad!" Sherlock shut his eyes then and focused on taking deep breaths, trembling as he felt his heart pound at a dizzying speed. When he opened his eyes again, it was to behold a very concerned friend.

"Holmes, please."

Sherlock shook his head. "Watson, you don't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

Sherlock grimaced, remembered pain twisting his features.

"Holmes, please," Watson said gently. "Tell me."

"Very well." Sherlock took another deep breath. "I once told you that my mind rebels at stagnation. Do you remember that?"

Watson nodded, a sad smile playing about the corners of his lips. "If you'll recall, that conversation appears in _The Sign of the Four_."

Sherlock felt obligated to make a sour expression, which, in turn, made Watson chuckle. The detective counted it a victory. "That remains true, now more than ever. I… I am afraid, my dear fellow. I have spent a month in a void—a place without light and warmth and _time_." He turned his gaze to the window, to the rain starting to fall once more, because he could not keep his eyes upon his friend's horrified expression.

He couldn't. He remained just one wrong word away from a deluge of memory, and he could not keep his head above that kind of flood forever.

Determined to have this out, he finally murmured, "I was going mad." He had not yet told anyone just what his time in Moriarty's gaol had done to him, but he felt instinctively that his dearest friend must know. "Truly mad, Watson. I had lost nearly all sense of identity: I could scarcely remember life _before_ that prison, and what I could recall seemed to belong to another man."

He smiled bitterly, feeling the tug of tangible memory and pushing it back. "I was a pet. A _plaything_. I was their 'Little Detective', but I was not even that. I'd lost all sense of deductive reasoning—my mind was reduced to pure intuition. In a very real sense, my dear Watson, the Sherlock Holmes you know entirely ceased to exist in that dungeon."

"Not entirely," Watson said quietly, unexpectedly. He caught Holmes's inquisitive gaze and nearly smiled. "You could not have come back to us otherwise." He paused. "In essence, you are afraid of mental inactivity because you have already been subjected to it for far too long."

Holmes cocked his head. "Essentially correct, yes."

Watson nodded. "Well, then, when do you leave?"

Holmes blinked, shocked into a one-word question. "What?"

"I know you, Sherlock Holmes—I know you all too well. Once you have your mind set on something, there is no stopping you. I have reservations, certainly, but what can I do? To hem you in would be as dangerous as letting you roam free, perhaps more so."

Holmes arched one very aristocratic eyebrow. "My dear Watson, shall I ever reach your limits?"

Watson arched an eyebrow in response. "I shouldn't think any more than I could reach yours."

Holmes threw his head back and laughed, a real laugh that felt so wonderful to make. "A _distinct_ touch, Watson! Ah, I shall have to take Wiggins into confidence, but I should like to leave New Year's Eve. Even the British Government and the greatest British crime family are not quite as efficient as their wont on holidays."

Watson nodded slowly. "What can I say but: be careful, Holmes. Be extremely careful."

The word "always" was poised on Holmes's tongue, but he stopped himself. The last time he'd promised that, he had been kidnapped less than two days later. Instead, he gave Watson a sad smile. "I shall do my best."

* * *

><p>"And how is your younger brother, Mr. Holmes?"<p>

The casual observer could not have deduced any animosity between the two men, much less outright hatred on Mycroft's part. The elder Holmes wanted nothing so much as to wrap his hands around Professor Moriarty's slender neck and strangle the life out of him. Alas that such an action would cause more problems than it could solve.

"He is doing _quite_ well, thank you." It was no more than courtesy, of course, for a man of high social status to inquire into the health of the brother of another man of high social status. In actuality, it was condescension, as Mycroft's only title should have been that of a country squire, and James Moriarty was rather higher in the pecking order as titles went.

And in the subtext, of course, Moriarty must have wanted very badly to know how Sherlock was faring.

Mycroft allowed himself a brotherly frown. "He came down with quite the illness, do you know—so dreadful that, for a time, we actually despaired of his life." That would have been the correct place to pause and allow the listener to make some obligatory denial or claim of concern.

Mycroft did not pause.

"But he has recovered," he continued in a satisfactory tone. "He is quite his old self again, with no long-term damage to his health or his mind."

"I am glad to hear it." That same casual observer would have noted nothing more than solicitousness in the Professor's voice. "It would be a tragedy and a shame to lose one of Britain's finest thinkers."

Mycroft allowed himself a completely shallow smile. "Yes, would it not be? But he is quite safe and sound, and he shall continue to be so, I assure you." He knew that his eyes said what his mouth did not: _Stay away from my brother_.

Moriarty simply smiled and nodded once. "It would seem that we firstborn never do stop worrying after our younger brothers, do we? A happy New Year to you, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft nodded back, wishing that he could burn the man up with his gaze. "And to you, Professor Moriarty."

* * *

><p><em>My dear Watson,<em>

_I pray that you shall not be angry with me for taking my leave without saying goodbye. I simply could not. I have never enjoyed farewells, and I should have liked this one less than is my wont. Forgive me, Watson._

_Do give all my love to Mary, won't you? Of course you know that my warmest regard lies with you._

_No, it truly does, Watson—do not frown at the paper that way. Consider me a coward for not having the courage to tell you this in person. But I do remain, my dear fellow, most sincerely yours,_

_ Sherlock Holmes_

_P.S. If you are looking for a case to write up into another one of your romantic novels, might I suggest the Baskerville Case? It presents some points of interest to the criminologist (to which I hope you shall do justice), and it certainly ought to satisfy the morbid demands of your gullible public. Do try it, there's a good fellow?_

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><p><em>My dear Mycroft,<em>

_I know that you shall be utterly furious when you receive this letter. Forgive me, brother mine, and understand. Remaining in your house much longer would have killed me as certainly as any assassin could. Perhaps more so. There are, after all, fates worse than death._

_But I shall take unprecedented caution, and I have a loyal bodyguard in the form of a certain Baker Street Irregular. I believe the change shall do me good, and I shall try to get some sea air, which is, after all, all the vogue with physicians everywhere._

_I shall be in contact with you soon, and until then, I remain your disobedient, horrid petit frère,_

_ Sherlock Edward_

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><p><em>During the winter of [1890] and the early spring of 1891, I saw in the papers that he had been engaged by the French government upon a matter of supreme importance, and I received two notes from Holmes, dated from Narbonne and from Nîmes, from which I gathered that his stay in France was likely to be a long one.<em>

—John Watson, "The Final Problem"

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Let it be said that I _really_ like Sherlock's P.S. in his note to Watson—it sounds _just_ like him, a feat I don't often achieve. "Your gullible public" is a nod to _The Secret of Sherlock Holmes _by Jeremy Paul, originally performed on-stage by the great Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke! And, of course, there's Sherlock's sign-off to poor Mycroft, calling himself Mycroft's disobedient, horrid little brother. =) Ah, Sherlock…

As for the long-awaited conclusion of the scene with Mycroft and Moriarty… the other day, I sat back and looked—really _looked_—at it. I wish I'd been able to write that second part sooner, because I _know_ there's some extra dialogue that was lost, and I just _kick_ myself when stuff like that happens… But even so, I really _like_ this scene. Poor Mycroft is really trying to get at Moriarty any way he can, and nothing he says can faze the man. And then Moriarty makes a _seemingly_ innocuous comment about brothers, and it's such an "ouch" moment. The Moriarty brothers have a very bad relationship, and of course Mycroft would know that, so of course Moriarty would know that he knows. And Mycroft does not appreciate the implied comparison _at all_.

Mycroft and Sherlock ended up sounding a lot like their modern counterparts, which isn't entirely a bad thing. Both are under an enormous amount of stress, and they always have had a tendency to snap at each other (at least, going back in time in this 'verse). This time, it results in some more "ouch" moments on either end—I like having poor Watson in the background, because I just see him wincing practically every time one of the brothers opens their mouths.

Hope you liked Holmes finally confiding in Watson like that, because I sure did. And did you notice the transition between names? =) He's definitely back, our Great Detective. (I must admit that the "What?" was a shout-out to something specific, but if you don't get it, I won't explain the joke. *slides down in seat*) And he _laughs_. Still makes me smile.

My favorite scene, though, was the very beginning: Sherlock's dream. Standing in the rain, able to picture his friends coming… and Cécile Holmes. That was just… so, so special. I really love that one.

Epilogue coming next, along with the missing scenes/bonus material in the form of _Deliver Us from Evil: Beyond Mortality_! Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	28. Epilogue: War

**Author's Note:**

Here it is, at last! After a year of frustration, elation, and all around life, here is the _final_ installment of _Mortality_! (And only the third time I've ever completed a multi-chaptered fanfic...)

Many thanks to _**everyone**_ who has favorited, subscribed to, and/or reviewed this story! Your encouragement has really gotten me through the past year—you have no idea just how far it's gone. And right now I'd like to give some special **Shout-Outs/Acknowledgments…**

…to **aragonite**, because without her epic _A Sword for Defense_ series, I wouldn't have been inspired and challenged to write my own.

…to **MadameGiry25**, for being a constant encouragement and a huge help from beginning to end.

…to **Riandra**, for, well, _A Study in Regret_, Skype, and all those virtual hugs!

…to **Historian1912**, **Ennui Enigma**, and **Ranger-Nova** for being such faithful and fantastic reviewers!

…to **Azolean**, for the flood of magnificent reviews that came at just the right time to help me get back into Sherlockiana fulltime!

**To my reviewers (I intend to answer reviews for _this_ installment via PMs):**

Historian1912: Ah, I don't know. Cheery stories have a hard time finding me. Ah, well… Thanks so much! =) I am indeed leading up to "The Final Problem," which is where I've wanted to be all along. The next book will pick right up from where this one leaves off, so no worries! Ah, poor Mycroft and Sherlock—they're both only doing what they believe they need to do. I know what you mean, though: they can make _me_ wince, sometimes. Oh yes, the scene between Mycroft and Moriarty is indeed one that's best suited to cinema, but I'm glad you find it still works—one of my favorite bits, that. Ah, the letters! So glad you enjoyed them and practically heard Brett!Holmes's voice, squeee! I myself tend towards hearing younger!Brett as my Holmes, but every now and then, older!Brett does bleed through. Aw, so glad you've liked this so much! God bless! *hugs*

Peaceful Defender: (Answering your PM, too, since it was previously lost in the triage—sorry about that. *cringes*) Thanks for identifying yourself! =) Argh, don't you just hate it when, for whatever reason, your computer quits on you in the middle of typing something out? Drives me nuts. Ha-ha, you're quite welcome for the "analysis to your review". *grins again* Well, Moriarty's eventual fate ought to be a foregone conclusion, but we'll see what happens to him in the interim. At the very least, it ought to be interesting. Thanks so much for all your support, and, to be honest, I can't wait for the sequel, either!

Ennui Enigma: Thank you very much! I know that it does seem as if Watson let go too easily, and maybe I do have to elaborate a bit the build-up to that. But, as you said, Watson of all people knows what happens when Holmes gets bored—and I think that his acceptance of Holmes's departure is the end result of what he's been through with Holmes in the past couple of weeks, from the rescue on to the present. Watson's been just about as afraid for Holmes's mind as Holmes has been, himself. And, to be honest, Watson surprised _me_ about as much as he surprised Holmes. ;D Very glad you liked the dialogue between the brothers—I really like how it turned out, myself. Eeee, Mycroft and Moriarty! _Definitely_ a lot of subtlety and subtext—glad you liked it. And, yes, I just _had_ to reference the SUSS line—it's one of my favorites. And Watson's little comeback was so much fun to write. In essence, Holmes and Watson already said their goodbyes, and I think that Holmes really _couldn't_ have managed it a second time. I'm positive Watson understands… and I do understand the reader viewpoint: it _is_ disappointing, and rather sad. Thank you so much for everything!

2ndbestdetective: Aw, glad you were excited about being in the "to my reviewers" section! =) You do indeed contribute something—I honestly need all the encouragement I can get! Oh, I can't tell you how happy I am that so many people have enjoyed the scene between Mycroft and Moriarty. I get what you mean about the heart-to-heart—absolutely. I love writing Sherlock as a child or a teenager, or his memories of those times; it's really wonderful to dig into his past like that and show his origins. And one of the themes running through all my Sherlockian fiction is indeed family, biological and honorary, and its importance. Ah, _The House of Silk_—I thought it was good. There were some discrepancies with the Canon that bothered me, but it did break my heart—and I do tend to love stories that do that. I really enjoyed how Holmes's emotions were fleshed out… I just wish that the author had gone a bit further with that when Holmes is under arrest. But the ending was terrible and wonderful (and yes, I see what you did there ;D). Thanks for everything!

aragonite: _Ahhhsqueee_, I didn't know you were reading this fic! *beams* Your review really made my day—not only did your work inspire me to start on this series, but… Your attention to historical detail and your mastery at writing our boys in the Yard has really challenged me. All in all, you're the closest thing I have to an idol in this fandom. Okay, now that I've got that out of the way… *blushes* I'm so thrilled you've enjoyed the story so much—and the Mycroft and Moriarty scene! That's just… oo, I love that scene, I really do. Thank you so much!

Azolean: Well, since all your reviews combined have to equal the word count of one of my longer chapters… _at least_… I'm going to have to answer only your last review right now and save the rest for a PM. ;D But thank you. Thankyouthankyou_thankyou_. =) I'm really glad that our differing interpretations didn't at all detract from your enjoyment! That's fantastic. "Creativity and talent"… wow. *blushes and grins* Thanks. Ah, I look forward to the published version, too, but I'm afraid it will take a while (see the A/N below). But I'll do my best to move it along! Don't want to lose an enthusiastic audience!

j3ntheninja: Aw, so glad you liked the dream sequence! *is happy* I was certainly trying to "wrap everything up nice and tight," so I'm glad you think I did. Sherlock not saying "always" was, I think, a very important moment for him. *giggles at your cheers for Mycroft _and_ your joke about the letters* I really loved writing those letters—I can't tell you how much I loved writing them. It's funny how "Edward" has gotten so thoroughly fixed in my mind as Sherlock's middle name—no William Sherlock Scott Holmes, thank you very much! ^_^ Thank you so much for everything!

MadameGiry25: Yay, the dream scene again! Okay, I have to say this again: I love writing Sherlock as a boy. I really do. I love showing the bits of him that will mature into the man we know and love. Aw, so glad you liked Cécile so much! =) Nooo, actually, I wasn't going for _abrupt_ in the transition, and, believe me, I'm painfully aware of it. Will have to work on that. Glad you like the envelope scene so much! *beams* "I had to sit back and let it soak in a for a moment before I could summon up any words about it." …darling, you could not possibly have said anything more perfect. *dances* Just… ooo, thank you so much—that's all I can say about your comments on the Mycroft vs. Moriarty scene! Those letters did indeed give me a lot of freedom—if I recall correctly, it was just something I came up with on the spot to wrap it all up. The only wrap-up I could think up, actually. Aw, so glad you loved the P.S. and just the letters, period! Mycroft and Sherlock sounding a bit like their _Sherlock_ selves does really work for me, and I'm glad you agree! Ah, most times, if I'm trying to convey a lot of emotion in a scene, I do have to break away from Doyle's style, 'cos it just doesn't lend itself to much more than strong, even melodramatic, outbursts. *sighs* Anyhoo… Awww, thank you so much!

Ranger-Nova: Aw, donnae fash yerself about reviewin'! (In case you can't translate Scottish English, that means, "don't worry yourself".) ;D I've been very busy myself, lately, and I'm only about to get busier… Glad you enjoyed the chapter so much, and, aww, thanks for the vote of confidence! *hugs* Ah, okay—well, I fiddled around with those links once; I suppose I'll try again. ;D Yay for Classic Doctor Who—I really think you'll enjoy them! And I'm so glad you like Mycroft. Well… think of Mycroft as being harder, more devious, more suave… and I suppose that's Mark Gatiss's Mycroft in a nutshell. D'aw, you just HAVE to get _Sherlock_ on DVD someday! Aw, I know I can count on you, hon, and that means so much to me. I'm so glad you've had so much fun with my story—makes me so happy! God bless, and thank you!

* * *

><p><em>© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

* * *

><p><strong>==Epilogue==<strong>

**War**

"_I don't say that he can't be beat. But you must give me time—you must give me time!"_

—Sherlock Holmes

The year is 1891, and the shadow of the Reichenbach Falls looms over every man, woman, and child engaged in what Scotland Yard will come to call The War That Never Was.

_The Detective_.

He is the amateur, the gentleman, the civilian who refuses to remain on the sidelines. He possesses a magnificent mind and an even more magnificent heart. He may not be a criminal, but he is one of the most dangerous men in the British Empire. And one of the most endangered. He is only too aware of his peril, for his single goal is to bring down the greatest criminal Britain has ever produced. He cannot see Reichenbach yet, but he knows that his future lies along that path.

_The Doctor_.

He is the physician who seems to spend more time around the dead than the living. He is the husband oft away from home but loving and much loved, nevertheless. He is the dearest friend of the Detective, who has protested so often that he should not have friends, that he only drags his friends into danger. He saves lives because he wants to do so, and he takes them because he must do so. He is a man of contradictions, this Doctor, and he is beautiful for it. Reichenbach is unthinkable, because he has already grieved once and he cannot conceive being able to survive it a second time.

_The Protégé_.

He is the boy born within the sound of the Bells, the boy who took up the role of father far too young, the boy who aided a young toff because he wanted to do so. He is the older brother, the leader of several dozen boys who answer to that toff, because the toff treats them like sons. He is the son of the Detective in spirit, and he is more than ready to carry on his father's legacy. Not only is Reichenbach unthinkable—it is an impossibility, for nothing on earth or below it can rip his father away from him like that.

_The Brother_.

He is the British Government Personified. He is one of the greatest thinkers his people have ever produced. He is also a brother, and he is so very human. His father declared this war against an implacable enemy, long ago, and his younger brother has now picked up the flag. The British Government Personified could stay out of it, for he has enough good men aiding his brother, the Detective. But his brother is all that he has, and he _will_ be damned before he allows his brother to challenge their enemy without him. He can see the shadow of Reichenbach even if he cannot see the shadow's source, and it frightens him.

_The Professional_.

The "best of professionals," the Detective labels him, and the title is apt. He may not be brilliant, this man, but he is clever and he has experience on his side. He is not a soldier, but he has sworn an oath. He is willing to do what must be done to protect his city, his friends, his family. His stature is small, but his heart could not be larger. He sees the shadow, and he fears it—for all their sakes, but for the Detective, especially. Despite all the differences they have ever had, the Professional loves his amateur colleague like a son, and he dreads the day that the Detective's death might become a reality.

_The Spy_.

He has been fighting the war long before the Detective was aware of it, recruited by the Detective's own father. The Spy is no less than a diamond, cold and hard and brilliant. He is also little more, for his heart is so tightly encased within that it cannot shine alongside his intellect. He is one of the greatest weapons his side has in this war, as valuable as the Detective himself. While the Detective must fight abroad, the Spy can continue the fight in London. He sees Reichenbach as a possibility only, an outcome of the war gone very wrong. He works to avoid it, but how can one help but work towards the inevitable?

_The Professor_.

He is the most dangerous man in London, and, indeed, one of the most dangerous men in the world. He is the uncontested ruler of Britain's vast underworld. He is a serpent, cold-blooded and lethal. He is the darkness to the Detective's light, and he hates the man for it. He is now in this war not only for his reign but for his very life, and this only makes him more deadly than ever. He dreads the shadow of Reichenbach because he knows that it will be the only outcome to this war if his enemies continue on their chosen path.

_The Colonel_.

He is one of the best shots and thus one of the best hunters in the British Empire. He is the tiger chained to the serpent, but this is the life he has chosen and he will not walk away from it. A magnificent soldier, he has never been bested until now, and he hates the Detective all the more for it. He refuses to see Reichenbach as a probability, but he vows that the Detective will die at his hand. If he fails to do so, fails to end this war in his own victory, he has resolved to take his own life rather than to live in shame.

These are the men who define The War That Never Was. From the darkest streets of London's East End to the glittering Himalayas, they have already fought and will continue to fight. There are no battlefields, but there are frontlines. There are guns but no cannons. This is a war fought with words, with ideas, with despair and hope and hatred and love.

Remember this war. While the world marches on the path to self-destruction, brave men and women seek to hold back the rise of corruption from within.

They walk the road to Reichenbach, because no victory ever comes without a price.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued<strong>

**In**

_**The Road to Reichenbach**_

**On**

**September 28, 2012**

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I hope that was worth the wait! (And I hope that all this extra info, which is twice the length of the actual epilogue, is also worth it…) Holmes, Watson, Wiggins, Mycroft, Lestrade, Patterson, Moriarty, and Moran—I just had to cover them all! Originally, this wasn't what the epilogue was going to look like. Originally, it was supposed to be set in Paris from Holmes's first-person POV. But I simply didn't have enough information on Paris to make it as atmospheric as I can write Victorian London. After bludgeoning myself over the head for weeks, I fell back on a prologue that I had written for, of all things, a Star Wars fanfic. I took the structure and style of that prologue and Sherlockianized it. ;D

For me, the name Reichenbach is synonymous with what happened there and when. E.g. May 4th, 1891, is simply _Reichenbach_ to me. So are the end of Professor Moriarty's life and the start of the Great Hiatus. That's why I use the name so extensively, here and elsewhere.

_Beyond Mortality_ is now online—it's the collection of missing/extended scenes from this story. Please check it out, do! And stay tuned to my blog ( / / studysherlockiana . blogspot . com).

Now, about _The Road to Reichenbach_. I've already written the prologue, but I'm still unsure as to how Act I of the book will play out. I don't dare post the prologue until I have _at least_ the first chapter written, hence the target date above. And I do have college this year, and I'm also doing NaNoWriMo—with a dark!Holmes concept as my intended novel (see blog for details). Not to mention the fact that _this_ novel needs to be redrafted and edited and all that fun stuff in preparation for publication—and that _will_ take time. Lots of it.

And_ Road_ will take some time to get off the ground, but I promise you that it will be worth it. Until then, keep track of me for bonus material and spoilers on this site, my blog, my deviantART account (aleineskyfire), my Twitter (Gwendolyn Frame), and my brand-new Tumblr (A Study in Sherlockiana).

And thank you once more to everyone who has been on this journey with me! I hope it's been worth it, and I hope you'll join me again for the next one!

_**Please review!**_


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